EPILOGUE
“I have been to a lot of galas in my time,” Desiree said, “but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I thought we were going to be crushed to death out there,” Casey said. “I was chatting with a reporter in the lobby, and he told me it took him an hour to drive the last four blocks along Hollywood Boulevard on his way here.”
Casey looked at his watch. It was after nine-thirty; the picture was supposed to have started at eight-fifteen. Ahead of where he and Desiree sat, people were still scrambling for seats.
“What did you think of the airplanes?” Desiree asked. At one point, while they’d been trapped in the crowd in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, a squadron of red-painted biplanes had flown overhead—as if this premiere had needed any more promotion.
“I was mostly glad I wasn’t one of the pilots,” Casey admitted. “I would have hated to miss this.”
“I wonder what Jerry Straebo thinks of it all,” Desiree said into his ear. It wasn’t so noisy in the theater that she’d had to be that close in order to be heard, but Casey was glad she’d done it anyway. He reached for her hand, and squeezed.
Seven months had passed since the two of them had had their first swim together. A lot had happened in that time. After a quiet hearing, Eve Adams had been pronounced insane and committed to a fancy institution south of San Francisco. High Risk had been released, earned a small profit, and been forgotten.
And Jerry Straebo, for all of his sins, was still employed by Monarch. He’d been drinking a lot more lately, though, so Casey had his doubts about how much longer the man would still be directing anywhere. Straebo’s job continued to hang from picture to picture, and perhaps that increased stress—as if movie directors needed any more stress in this time of turmoil in Hollywood—had had some positive impact on Straebo’s work. Certainly his last picture, a comedy, had been both funny and successful. That hadn’t made Casey any more fond of him, mind.
“I don’t really care what Jerry thinks,” he said. “Not that I think that my opinion in this area matters.”
“Oh, you might be surprised,” Desiree murmured. A lot had happened between them in the last seven months, too. Most of it had been good.
“Have you seen Jean anywhere since we got in?” he asked.
“No. Last I saw her, the poor kid was still surrounded by reporters and adoring fans.” Desiree chewed absently on a fingernail. “I’d be surprised if she hung around to watch, though.” Desiree had gotten to know the young Miss Harlow fairly well, and had found her to be a warm, friendly—and funny—young woman. Casey had grown to know, and despise, both her mother and stepfather.
“From what I’ve been able to gather—she doesn’t talk about it much—Jean was so traumatized by the experience of working with James Whale that she can’t bear to look at herself on-screen.” Desiree frowned. “She’s started doubting whether she can act at all.”
“It’s not all that British fairy’s fault. Jean really is a lousy actress right now.”
Casey and Desiree twisted in their seats and turned. Casey’s stomach lurched: he recognized the voice of the man behind them.
“Glad you were able to make it tonight,” Howard Hughes said. For once, Hughes had taken off his hat; Casey saw a high-domed forehead, the hairline beginning to recede at a rate surprising in so young a man.
“I didn’t realize that the invitation came from you, Mr. Hughes,” Desiree said. “But thank you for inviting us.”
“And for getting us such good seats,” Casey said, turning back around to watch people jockeying for the few remaining seats ‘way down in front.
“Well, I figured I owed something to you,” Hughes said. “Besides, Jean asked me.”
“Is she going to be all right?” Desiree asked. “I remember what my first premiere was like. I threw up for what seemed like hours before-hand.”
“I hope so,” Hughes said. “Last I heard, she’d gone to hide back-stage.” He made an impatient-sounding noise, something like a cough. “Don’t understand why she’s upset. She’s supposed to sell the picture, but she’s not the reason people are here.”
“Oh?” Desiree said, faintly. Casey shifted his gaze away so that Hughes wouldn’t see the grin he couldn’t suppress. If Hughes wasn’t careful, Desiree might teach him several new lessons in the economics of Hollywood—lessons that Hughes ought to learn, but probably wouldn’t. The country’s in a depression, Casey thought, and he’s just spent four million dollars making a movie. Nobody will be able to afford to go see it. He’ll never make his investment back, much less a profit.
“Course not,” Hughes said. “Spectacle, that’s what people want. If Griffith had given people more of that amazing Babylon and less preaching about Love, even Intolerance would have made money.” He turned to whisper something to the woman sitting beside him, and Casey realized with a start that the woman was a stenographer.
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
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