Copyright Patricia Turner
ISBN: 1-932014-21-7

Part One

CHAPTER 1

Pastelle Cheyette opened the new edition of the Stargazer Movie Album for 1946 that she’d bought on her way to the studio and skimmed over her entry in it:

A luscious 5′6” blonde. Twenty-three years old. Has hazel eyes with a hint of green. An exquisite beauty whose tantalizingly husky voice proved much too sensual for the censors. After her first screen appearance they ordered it be toned down for future pictures. Born and raised in Brooklyn, she studied drama and did summer theatre stints before launching into movies. She caught the eye of powerful Hollywood producer, Leonard J. Wishart, whose protege she has since become. She’s had small but meaty parts in her three films to date. Wishart is on the lookout for a suitable vehicle for her first starring role.

Her brief filmography was printed below the paragraph.

Pastelle rested the album on her knee and called over to Leonard Wishart who was surrounded by a mountain of paper. “Well, Lenny, have you come up with anything yet? It even says here in the latest edition of Stargazer that you’re looking around for a script for my first major role. That line’s been out in the fan mags for weeks now. I’m going to look pretty silly if you don’t come up with something soon.”

Wishart ran the pencil he was holding over his tight sandy curls then threw it down on his desk and lit up a cigar that smelled so foul it made Pastelle feel sick. “You’ll get your part soon enough, princess,” he told her, then gestured to the pile of papers surrounding him. “There are a couple of scripts here that give me a good feeling but I have to be damn sure about them before I send them over for Micah’s approval. He’ll go for anything he thinks is a likely money spinner regardless of its caliber. He wants you in his stable of stars but he hasn’t got the same vested interest in you that I have. Your career’s important to him, sure, but he’s got a string of stars who are already at the top and they’re the ones whose fame he wants to milk. You’re too low on his list at present for him to pay much attention to what you’re being starred in.”

“Studio bosses are such dopes,” said Pastelle, slamming shut the album. “Don’t let me down, Lenny. When you do find a suitable script don’t let Micah zap it away from you and give it to one of his big names. I crawled out of the ghetto in Brooklyn and worked two jobs to be able to afford to go to drama school, then gave up a promising stage career to come to Hollywood. I’ve paid my dues; I want to start reaping the rewards.”

Wishart splayed out his hands in a gesture of agreement. “I’m with you all the way, princess. I promised you a top starring role, and I’ll burn in hell before I go back on my word. Not even our demagogue of a studio boss will stand in our way.” He tapped ash off the end of his cigar and continued, “The fan mail you’re getting is growing daily. As you know the publicity boys keep tabs on how much or how little each actor or actress receives―it’s a measure of their popularity. I’ll be reminding Micah of that when I see him, emphasizing just how high the fans rate you.”

Wishart got up from his desk and went over to where Pastelle was sitting. He sat on the arm of her chair, ran his fingers through her long, silken hair, then put his mouth to her ear and said softly, “I should be able to wrap up that appointment I have tonight earlier than I thought so I’ll be able to call round to see you after all.” He felt the slight tensing of her body, and his voice took on a sudden harsh tone. “I hope you’re not going to give me that headache line again. I’m pushing your career for all it’s worth because I’m crazy about you, but over the past few weeks you’ve hardly let me get near you. You almost treat me like I’m poison. What gives?”

Alarmed at her obvious transparency, Pastelle hurried to reassure him. “Nothing gives, Lenny. I’ve just been a bit run down of late, and I get nervous when I think of Micah. He’d put me on suspension if he knew we had something going together. The old hypocrite has no morals of his own, yet he inserts ‘decency clauses’ in our contracts and expects us to live up to the highest moral standards.”

Wishart stabbed the air with his cigar. “The reason for that is he doesn’t want any scandal to leak to the press. His stars have to appear to the world to be wholesome and homespun.”

Pastelle injected a trace of fear into her voice in order to add weight to her alleged nervous state. “But he’s ruthless, Lenny. Any sniff of so-called impropriety and my career’s over before it gets off the ground.”

Wishart’s pale blue eyes appeared to darken as they bore hard into Pastelle’s. “Okay, Stell, you’ve been a bit run down and on edge about Micah, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. When we do make love I often get the feeling that you’re holding back. It’s as though it’s something you’re enduring rather than enjoying, and it really pisses me off.”

A rush of panic made Pastelle start but she quickly covered the involuntary movement by reaching for Wishart’s hand. “That isn’t so, Lenny. I tell you it’s just that I’ve been under some strain of late worrying about where my career’s going, and I just can’t help it but I seem to see Micah everywhere, even in my bedroom. We both know he has his informers planted all over the place. It’s only a matter of time before he gets the mail on our alliance.”

Wishart tossed the cigar into an ashtray and clasped both of her hands in his. “Then marry me, Stell. Marry me. We’ll legitimize our relationship. Then what can Micah do? I know there’s a big age difference but I’m still on the better side of fifty.”

Pastelle’s fingers tightened around his, and she spoke in a gentle tone, “Oh, Lenny, it isn’t your age. I’m not ready for marriage yet; that’s all. I just couldn’t settle down to it. And besides, male audiences like their sex symbols to be single. Don’t look so wounded. I’ll show you tonight just how crazy I am about you, too. But be on your guard for Micah’s spies.”

Pastelle had been as good as her word. As far as Wishart was concerned her lovemaking that night made up for all his disappointments of the last few weeks. There’d been no inhibition, no holding back. She’d taken him to a realm of ecstasy that he’d never dreamed existed. He lay beside her now in a sublime sleep.

In contrast, every millimeter of Pastelle’s skin seemed to crawl at the nearness of his naked body. His head was turned away from her but she could hear the muffled sounds of his snoring. She eased herself off the bed, went into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Endure, she told herself sternly as she stepped under the hot spray. Endure. He’s your ticket to stardom. Antagonize him and you’ll blow your one chance of success.

Pastelle’s phone rang just as she was finishing her breakfast. She went into the living room, picked up the receiver, and said a crisp, “Hello.”

“Pastelle, it’s Sweeney. Can you come over for a sitting? The light’s just superb this morning.”

Pastelle’s mood perked up at the sound of the artist’s voice. “Sure, why not. I’ve got nothing else on at the moment. Just give me a few minutes to get myself organized.”

“Swell, honey. I’ll start setting things up.”

Sweeney’s apartment, which was a couple of floors above Pastelle’s, had a large, light-filled studio at the top of a small flight of stairs. Its walls were studded at present with eerie images of a city at night: leaning skyscrapers that seemed to be swallowing people the way pythons swallow mice; a lone gunman laughing as his victim’s brains splatter over a shop window; a prostitute’s face contorted in horror as the shadow of a man falls upon her.

When Pastelle had moved into the building six months before, Sweeney’s painter’s eye knew that the sumptuous Nordic face, inlaid with a mixture of vulnerability and strength, had to be captured on canvas. Sweeney had the gift of being able to strike up conversations with perfect strangers, and although Pastelle had been somewhat aloof at first, Sweeney’s easy manner soon had brought her round. Pastelle now immensely enjoyed the company of this twice-divorced woman whose husbands hadn’t understood her obsessive need to paint.

The front door was unlocked, and Pastelle made her way straight up to the studio.

“Hi, hon,” greeted Sweeney, the color rising in her cheeks at the sight of Pastelle. Her complexion, more English in appearance than American, was tinged now with a touch of pink. Although her raven hair was cut quite short it somehow managed to look disheveled. “I was afraid you might still be sleeping when I phoned,” she continued, “because I saw your boyfriend sneaking out of the building just as I came home in the early hours from a night on the town.”

Pastelle shot her a look of exasperation. “I’ve told you before, Sweeney, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s promoting my career and expects certain things in exchange. As soon as a new woman sets foot in a studio every man with a scrap of power holds her to ransom. You have to enter into these ‘arrangements’ if you’re ever to get anywhere in this business.”

Sweeney nodded her head in agreement. "Yeah, men have got it made. There’s always some woman they can enslave for their own selfish purposes. That’s what my two ex-husbands tried to do to me. My painting was supposed to run a poor second to my attending to their every need."

She led Pastelle to a spot where a stream of light was falling, then went over to her palette. “Has a part been settled on for your next picture?” she asked.

“Not yet,” answered Pastelle, taking up her pose. “Lenny’s still looking around for a suitable script. The trouble is that if something seems too good Micah’s liable to swipe it for one of his top stars. He’s always on the lookout for big romantic roles for them. Lenny’s powerful but Micah always has the last word.”

Sweeney’s brush dabbed at a mound of freshly mixed flesh-colored paint, then began stroking the canvas. With the brush still poised over the painting she looked at the emerging image, then over at the original. “You know, Stell,” she said, “there’s a new mood emanating right across the country and it’s starting to seep into all aspects of art, including movies. The Depression and two world wars have obliterated our innocence. They’ve exposed ‘civilized society’s’ dark underbelly. What we see is a cesspool of treachery, greed, torture, mass murder, and so on. Art and literature in America have never been as hard-hitting as their counterparts in Europe. Trench warfare changed everything for the Continentals. Movies here especially have been essentially all sweetness and light. The bad guy would get his just desserts, the all-American hero would get the girl, and they’d live happily ever after. Well, things are changing. Look at that film Stanwyck did a year or so back—Double Indemnity—and the Joan Bennett one that’s just been released—Scarlet Street. The men are anti-heroes, and the women real femme fatale types. What I’m getting at is that those sorts of roles probably aren’t the kind your studio boss would have in mind for his top lady stars. He’d be afraid they’d tarnish their image. Stanwyck has always been of a different ilk to the usual leading lady. She’d played some earthy roles in the past, and she’s so brilliant she can carry anything off. She’s an actress first and foremost. But even so if she’d been under contract to your studio it’s unlikely that she would have been permitted to play that part. Stell, you’d be perfect for a femme fatale role. You’ve got the kind of looks men would kill for, and sex appeal in spades. In the next few years I think this dark genre will really come into its own in this country, and you’re in the box seat to establish yourself as one of its premier stars. If I was you I’d persuade Lenny to ditch the idea of rosy romantic roles and start looking around for something in this vein that you can really get your teeth into."

The
light made Pastelle’s eyes look more green than hazel. They were trained on the artist’s face now. “I think I know what you mean,” she said slowly. “Films that are a mixture of glamour and grit. Predators lurking in city streets. You’re right, Sweeney. They present a side of life that’s been hidden from the screen until recently, and they do have a growing public appeal. Micah would probably be happy to let me have a role in movies like that. His belles will stay as pure as the driven snow, and he can still cash in on the popularity these ’seedy side of life’ films are likely to enjoy. I’ll start work on Lenny next time I see him.”

“Don’t let him know I
suggested it,” Sweeney said. “Men like to think they’re the font of all great ideas.” She stood back and looked at her work. “One more sitting and it’ll be finished. I can see now why I wanted to paint you so badly; you fit in somehow with all these images.” She gestured towards the hanging canvases. “Your face is part of the cityscape. It’s tantalizing, alluring, and deliciously dangerous. It will be the centerpiece of my exhibition. The dazzling light amidst the darkness. I only wish I could paint that voice.”