A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Seventy-Two
Elias Crawford Pictures was
hidden on a deserted side street off Santa Monica Boulevard—so hidden, in fact,
that Rose searched the entire block three times on foot and contemplated
awakening a derelict who was dozing on the sidewalk to ask him for directions.
All of the businesses in the neighborhood were closed; it was a Sunday
afternoon. But when she'd spoken with Elias on the telephone, he'd insisted
this was the only time he could see new talent. His secretary had quit, he
explained, and he was too busy during the week.
Rose was inwardly debating
whether to leave and salvage the rest of her day when a young woman, possibly
still a teenager, stumbled out of an alleyway between a cigar store and a pawn
shop. She glanced both ways, anxious, then began to hobble away on her
three-inch heels. Rose called out to her.
"Excuse me?" The girl
studied Rose warily as she approached. "I'm looking for number 303. Do you
know which building that is? None of them have numbers."
"What do I look like—"
the girl began, flustered, but after taking a good look at Rose, her face
softened. "Wait, 303, that's Elias Crawford. You don't wanna go
there."
"Well, yes, actually, I do,
and I'm running late for an appointment, so if you'll please just show
me..."
The girl hesitated before
pointing Rose in the direction of the cigar shop. "It's above the store.
You have to go in through the alley. I just came from there."
"Really? How was it?"
"You don't wanna know, hon.
If I was you, I'd just turn around and go right back home. Speaking of which, I
need to find my ride. Good luck!" she added as an afterthought, then
rushed off in the direction of Santa Monica Boulevard, muttering, "I can't
believe he left me here."
Rose cautiously entered the alley
and saw a heavy black door in the side of the building. It wasn't marked, but
she tested the knob and found it unlocked. Stepping inside, she found herself
in a darkened room where only the silhouettes of objects she assumed were
office furniture could be seen. A pinpoint of light shone from the top of a
narrow flight of stairs.
"Hello?" she called
out, and heard a shuffling of feet upstairs. A muffled response that sounded
like, "Right down," followed.
He was a large man and his
footsteps were heavy. In the pitch black Rose couldn't see his face but she
felt an immediate sense of discomfort. He flicked a light switch, and she came
face-to-face with a six-foot totem pole with an axe in folded arms and a mean
scowl.
Rose cried out and backed into
the edge of a desk. Groaning in pain, she rubbed the back of her leg, where
she'd find a nasty bruise when she drew her bath that night. Elias chuckled
softly.
"Sorry, miss, I forget how
much Geronimo there scares people. I borrowed him from the cigar store to use
in a picture that never quite got off the ground. I keep forgetting to return
him. Beats being greeted by that smart-aleck secretary...how you doin'? I'm Mr.
Crawford, but you can call me Elias, sweetie."
He held out a sweaty hand, and
for a long moment Rose struggled with the urge to get the hell away from this
creep. At least he didn't try to kiss her hand. "I'm Miss Dawson, but you
can call me Rose," she joked, offering a weak smile.
He smiled back. There wasn't much
in the way of teeth, and his breath reeked of tobacco. "All righty then,
Rose, if you'd just head up those stairs..." She couldn't help but notice
the click of the lock on the door behind her.
Elias's office was not much
larger than a cubbyhole and poorly lit. The sole window was caked with grime. A
desk piled high with papers dominated most of the floor space; a ratty sofa and
a metal filing cabinet, also overflowing with papers, took up the rest. It
seemed Elias enjoyed frightening his guests. A grinning skeleton waved at Rose
from a corner. She wandered over to get a closer look, nearly tripped over a
box on the floor, and gasped. A bloodied hand grasped the edge of the box.
Behind her, Elias laughed at her
expense—again. "It's only rubber. Go on, pick it up." When she didn't
move, he brushed past her, allowing her a whiff of cheap cologne, and plucked
the offending prop from the box. "See? I collect this stuff, for my movies.
There's more."
The need to flee returned, in
force. "I'm sorry," Rose stammered, "I just remembered I was
going to meet someone for lunch."
"Wait!" Elias dropped
the rubber hand on the floor and rushed to block the exit. "This won't
take long. Please, have a seat."
The only chair in the room was
occupied by more junk. A magazine bearing a photograph of a scantily-clad woman
on its cover rested atop the stack. Elias saw Rose eyeing it and grabbed her
arm, steering her to the couch, where she narrowly avoided sitting on a spring
that jutted through a hole in the fabric.
"I have just the part for
you," he gushed, his eyes alight with excitement as he dug through the
mess on his desk, finally emerging with a dog-eared sheaf of papers, which he
handed to her. "This is the script that's gonna change your life,
dolly."
Rose glanced at the cover page,
which read, "Untitled," by Elias Crawford. A regular
jack-of-all-trades, this clown was.
"It's a love story," he
was babbling. "The heroine gets kidnapped by a raving lunatic who lives in
a secluded mansion. It's the full moon that does it, kind of like a Jekyll and
Hyde thing, anyway, he kidnaps the lady, and, well, your first big scene is on
page ten. Why don't you go ahead and read that?"
He sat beside her, squeezing a
little too close for comfort, as she flipped the pages. The story was silly and
badly written. She reached page ten and frowned.
"This says she removes her
dress."
"Well...yes, I told you,
it's a love story. She saves the monster by making him fall in love with
her."
"Judging by your spare use
of words, Mr. Crawford, you have her seducing him less than ten minutes into
the film."
"Is there something wrong
with that?"
"You truly believe an
audience will take this seriously?"
Elias slid closer to her, placing
a meaty hand on her thigh. "I'm sure a gal as gorgeous as yourself could
make a believer out of anyone."
"Move your hand," Rose
said stiffly.
"Now, wait a minute. Helene
said you were new in town and real desperate for work. I'm doing you both a
favor. The least you can do—"
"I said, move your
hand!" she yelled, and gave him a shove, knocking him off balance. Elias
sprawled to the floor and sat there for a few seconds, stunned. Rose was on her
feet and downstairs fast as lightning, but he caught her before she reached the
door, and they wrestled. He had her by the wrists, backed against a wall, when
she unleashed her secret weapon, spitting full force directly into his eyes.
He released her, letting loose a
string of curses, and she made for the door again, fumbling with the lock
before getting it open. She couldn't resist a parting shot.
"By the way, it wasn't the
full moon that turned Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. You might want to learn to read
before you attempt to write."
Fearing Elias might attempt to
follow her, or that she'd run into some other unsuspecting ingénue on the
street, Rose ran to her car without stopping, started it, and pulled onto Santa
Monica Blvd. A horn blared in her ear; she'd narrowly missed a collision. After
turning right on Vine St., she had to pull over, she was shaking so terribly.
She couldn't go home in this
condition. Sebastian was there and he'd know right away something was wrong.
He'd drag every sordid detail out of her, the bastard, and then he'd make her
bring him to Crawford's office. Rose didn't need a man to defend her virtue for
her. Besides, there was someone she needed to speak to regarding this little
fiasco before she went anywhere else.
By this time the car was circling
into the Hollywood Hills, Rose had gotten the trembling under control, and
apprehension had given way to a boiling rage. Knowing how badly Rose needed
work, Helene had decided to have a little fun at her expense. All because of a
misplaced sense of jealousy.
In her anger, Rose very narrowly
escaped an accident for the second time and was forced to slow down. This
probably helped her to find the turnoff to Laurel Manor. She was silently
memorizing the upbraiding she'd give Helene when she arrived at the gates—only
to find them closed. No matter; there'd been similar gates at her home in
Philadelphia. Rather than crash right through the barrier as she was tempted
to, Rose located the intercom. She pressed a button and a voice came over the
speaker. "Yes?"
"Rose Dawson, to see
Helene."
"Mrs. Masterson isn't here
at the moment."
"Rose?" Terry
interrupted, sounding out of breath. "Wait just a sec. I'll let you
in." The gates began to swing inward, slowly.
Laurel Manor was glamorous at
night, but the scenery in daylight was even more spectacular. Rose hadn't been
able to see the cactus garden on New Year's Eve, nor the rows of evenly planted
giant palms at the edge of the property. At the crest of the hill, one could
look north and view the San Fernando Valley and the foothills beyond; in the
far distance, sunlight glittered on a snow-capped peak.
"Takes your breath away,
doesn't it?" Terry leaned on the verandah railing, grinning at her. He was
barefoot and his hair was tousled, as if he'd just gotten out of bed; Rose
couldn't help but blush like a schoolgirl. She looked again at the mountains.
"Stunning," she said.
Terry explained that he just
happened to be looking out of a window when she drove up and had sprinted to
the kitchen, where the intercom was located, to prevent Samson, the butler,
from turning her away. Only two weeks had passed since the party, but true to
Anderson's comment that night, the unfriendly Samson showed absolutely no sign
of recognition as he coolly took Rose's lightweight coat and offered tea. She
would wonder when he served it how he managed to find them. The interior of the
house was an elaborate maze of strangely decorated rooms, each one more
outlandish than the one before.
First came the parlor Terry
referred to as the White Room, presumably because of the blindingly white
furnishings, walls, and carpet; it obviously existed simply for show. The next
room was a library which also looked to be seldom used, due to the sheer lack
of books, but a stone fireplace, paintings of desert landscapes and a number of
exotic plants lent the room a certain cozy atmosphere. This was followed by a
second parlor where, Terry explained, they did much of their entertaining; the
couches were plush and inviting, and like a scene out of Arabian Nights, a
wealth of Persian rugs covered the floors and were suspended from the walls. A
very masculine billiards room came next, and the final stop on the tour was a
sunroom, much more ordinary than the others, which faced a courtyard outside. A
pathway led through a colorful flower garden, where butterflies played and
hummingbirds hovered around a feeder. Rose turned to ask if they could go
outside and saw a familiar face.
"Raphael," she said,
surprised, as he rose from the divan and took her hand. He wore reading
glasses; he'd been working and she’d interrupted him, but it didn't bother him
at all.
"You remembered my
name," he replied, and the look of sheer pleasure on his face brought to
mind a child who'd been rewarded for good behavior.
"Sure," Terry griped.
"All the ladies remember your name."
"I was very sorry to hear of
the loss of your friend," Raphael said. "Did his family like the
flowers?" Rose was puzzled. Terry interjected, "I asked Rafe to order
them on our behalf."
She thanked them both, aware that
they were competing for her favor.
The men had business to discuss.
It turned out that part of Raphael's job was to screen the many scripts that
came Terry's way. Terry told Rose that if a script didn't meet with Rafe's
approval, he probably wouldn't end up making the picture. A huge compliment on
his part, but this time they were at odds.
"This is terrible,"
Raphael said, waving the pages at his boss. "All of the Mexicans in this
story are vile!"
Terry shrugged. "Since when
do you care about that? Did I mention Rudy Valentino is reading for a
role?"
"Only a hundred times. Did I
mention that the so-called crazed revolutionaries kidnap and torture a white
woman?"
"Sounds like a script I read
today," Rose muttered.
"You went on an
audition?" Terry asked. "Rosie, that's great! Who'd you read
for?"
"His name's Elias Crawford.
Actually, that's what I came to see Helene about—" She paused. Terry's
face had darkened, the first time she'd ever seen him anything other than
cheerful.
"Crawford? Who sent you to
him?" he demanded.
Rose glanced at Raphael, whose
expression was one of concern. "Helene did," she said. "I
assumed you knew. It...didn't go well. The man was repulsive."
"He's a two-bit hustler and
a sleaze. Don't you ever go back there, Rose, you understand me?"
Terry was frightening her. Rose
nodded quickly. "You don't have to worry about that."
"Good. I'll talk to Helene
about this when she gets home. She finally got that invite to Pickfair. They're
playing croquet. Can you imagine Helene doing that?" With the subject so
smoothly changed, Terry was back to his usual self, but Rose knew he was hiding
something.
*****
The house was in a state of
disarray. Anna and Hans had sold most of the furniture and packed their
clothing, photographs, and other mementos into a few trunks and suitcases. This
was all they would carry with them on the train when they left at the end of
the month. Anna had made arrangements for them to live with her sister in New
York temporarily. Catherine would also move in with a relative—her grown son.
Rose didn't know he existed until after Fritz died and Catherine opened up to
her. She and her husband had divorced and she agreed to let him raise the boy
when he insinuated that exposure to her show business lifestyle would corrupt
their son. Turned out he was now an actor.
Elvira was returning to Germany,
although Sebastian’s plans were a question mark. Sale of the house and theater
were to be left to Max and Angelica, who would live in the house until they
could find a buyer. It was generally understood by now that Rose was staying behind
as well; she wasn't sure who managed to sway Angelica. On one level she was
relieved. She hadn't heard from Anderson since the funeral and Angelica was the
only other person she could confide in here. Sometimes she ached for a long
talk with Meg, or Vera, or Miss Yvette.
Rose regained her composure in
the wake of her disastrous audition, and only told Sebastian that she hated the
script and couldn't accept the part with a clear conscience. But she had every
intention of trying again.
"So it's definite,
then," he said. "You're not going back to New York."
"No. I rather like it here,
and it's been a dream of mine for years to act in pictures. You know that,
Sebastian."
"Yes, I suppose," he
mused. "This long-lost relative of yours wouldn't have anything to do with
your decision, would he?"
She'd told him that Anderson was
a distant cousin on her late father's side and nothing more. He didn't believe
her.
"I haven't spoken to him
since the funeral."
"I think it might be
ill-advised for you to remain here. Where will you live when this house is
sold?"
"Aren't you jumping the gun?
I have plenty of time—"
He raised a finger to her lips.
"Darling, I know you think you can conquer the world on your own terms,
but Hollywood is very different from New York. No one here knows what you can
do, and I hate to say this, but there are countless girls with the same dream
at the studios, and lots of them are younger than you are and more willing to
compromise. If you're to survive out here, you'll need help."
This couldn't be happening.
"I've decided to stay in Los
Angeles for a while. Max's father has gotten me an interview at Paramount, and
I'm already looking for a flat. Perhaps, if you tire of Angelica, you can live
with me."
This last he meant as a joke. Try
as she might, Rose couldn't find the humor in it.