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Black and White  Hollywood, California ~ August, 1940 Hitler hadn't invaded Poland yet, but the world was on pins and needles, and in Hollywood, they got out their tensions at nightly cocktail parties, at Claudette Colbert's villa in Bel Air, or Chaplin's Beverly Hills mansion... Tommy Dorsey and Charlie Barnet were at the top of the charts, and the swinging' sounds of everything from tap dancers to trios to big band music and velvet-voiced crooners could be heard every evening, spilling onto Wilshire Boulevard along with the pastel glow of lights from the art deco marquee of the El Rey ballroom... Chanel was languishing, and Dior hadn't gotten around to introducing the world to his New Look, but there was always Gilbert Adrian, catering to the local glamour set. Joan Crawford was mobbed by fans when she went shopping for presents for her newlyadopted daughter Christina... Romanoff's had just opened on Rodeo Drive... Fantasia had just premiered, along with Woody Woodpecker's first cartoon... and the newest buzz around the lots was Max Factor, and the invention of pancake makeup for the studios... Hollywood was a glittering diamond, an oasis on the edge of the California desert, a locale so remote to the rest of the world, of such legendary romance and mystery, that it could only be hinted at on celluloid, and like a magnet, it drew the young hopefuls in droves. Rose had no such ambitions... she was content merely to be a necessary part of the glitterati, a behind-the-scenes piece of the puzzle that gained her admittance to some of the biggest, most important homes in Los Angeles.
" 'Tis the last rose of summer / Left blooming
alone; / All her lovely companions / Are faded and gone." Between city lights and street paving, car exhaust and concrete sidewalks, the world was black and white or shades of grey... but the north side of the block along Wilshire Boulevard, between LaBrea and Fairfax, was alight with Easter egg patches of pink and blue that reflected the name "El Rey" like a backwards beacon on the windshields of passing sedans, and cast a cheerful summertime glow over the wide-shouldered, double-breasted suits and sizzling, jewel-studded gowns as they wandered in and out... Through a pair of big double doors, left standing open to the street, a plush carpet patterned with moons and stars led straight through the lobby and into the ballroom, a breathtaking setting where jetsetters could dance the night away to the sounds of an 18-piece orchestra, beneath chandeliers set in the thirty-foot ceiling, nibble on filet mignon at one of the elegant tables that formed an embankment along the dance floor, slouch in a secluded booth, or slip away with an amour to one of the magnificent, velvet-draped balconies. "Your green eyes with their soft lights... your eyes that promise sweet nights... bring to my soul a longing... a thirst for love divine..." Rose swam through this dazzling ocean, for once just another one of the unremarkable fish, in a black lace Chanel evening gown, with a sweetheart neckline trimmed in grosgrain ribbon, that wound around beneath her bosom and ended in back center bow. The skirt flared full, spinning out as she twirled on the dance floor, revealing the hem of a silk crêpe underslip sewn with alternating sections of lace and crêpe. The design was a little out of date, but it was still one of her favorites, and nothing at all to sneeze at. Her cream complexion and bee-stung lips served her well in this decade, and aside from a thick roll of russet, curled back from her forehead and framing her face, she needed little else to appear fashionable enough to sink into the crowd here. "In dreams I seem to hold you... To find you and enfold you... Our lips meet, and our hearts too... With a thrill so sublime..." Maybe... it was the oppressive heat and the crush of bodies inside the club... or maybe she needed a break from the shrieking horns, or the dance partner who continually stepped on her slippers, as inept as he was insistent... but just maybe... she was drawn outside by something else... maybe... Although it was a fashion growing rapidly more popular, she'd steadfastly refused to take up the habit of wearing trousers... instead, she'd taken up the habit of smoking, her concession to this new feminine trend of so-called liberation (she'd never needed the umbrella of liberation before to prove herself strong, but sure, she'd play along with the semantics game), and while it was hardly a thing to be hidden, particularly at the El Rey on a Saturday night, she still preferred to keep this pastime to the street outside, where there were fewer prying eyes. And so it was that she found herself on the sidewalk, standing in the volcano's breath of a California night breeze, sniffing at the crispness in the air (because in those days, you could still smell the sea from Santa Monica), as she fumbled with one of the deceptive first-class trappings of an otherwise profane habit. Her normally graceful hands betrayed her, struggling with the hasp of a slim silver cigarette case that had never given her a problem before. The reason? A death-black Deluxe Model Ford Sedan, evil on wheels, perched like a predator at the curb. Lines of chrome trim ran along the seams of its glossy front hood, accentuating contours like the beak of a bird of prey, and behind windows tinted with corruption, an interior of tan leather was barely visible. Those grained front seats were dappled with the orange glow from a radio dial, where a chauffeur's grey-gloved fingertips twiddled with the knobs,searching… 16" wheels and white wall tires… The effect was hypnotic. With a grind and a click, the tiniest of flames sparked up in front of her, nearly blinding her with its suddenness. She hadn't realized she'd been so mesmerized, hadn't even realized that the cigarette was out and hanging between her fingertips, but when the light appeared, she blinked to attention, and shoved a smile out to center stage, turning towards the man who had offered it. And there, she was forced to pause again, but only for a second. Pride hastened her to take a draw and a puff on the long cigarillo, so as not to appear foolish before a gentleman with such foreign grace. His hair was shiny, black as coal, and graced with a natural gloss, not the product of a pomade, combed back to reveal a high forehead and the curiosity of a widow's peak. Set in dusky olive skin was a broad, toothy smile, but as his lips curled back, they revealed jagged outlines at the corners of his mouth that resembled fangs... as though he had been hit in the mouth, at some point, and his teeth had been broken off in places. But, strangely, it did not detract, merely added a roguish, tough-guy charm. Besides, anyone could forgive the rakish, lopsided smile who was blessed with seeing those eyes - dark, almost black, but soft and yielding like a child's, and when he laughed, those eyes lit up like the diamonds of moonbeams hitting the ocean waves at midnight. He spoke, and the enchantment was complete. "Good evening, Rose." Like melted butterscotch, drizzled over her senses, was his voice… and so rich, she found herself swimming in it… and it never even occurred to her to wonder that he knew her name. But when he sniffed the air, she nearly choked on a lungful of smoke as she realized that… he knew… what she was... not her profession, but what she was… As she swallowed hard, struggling to regain her composure, she found that she could not tear her gaze from his, and so, it was left to him, to glance mockingly to the sky, to where a full moon would hang some five days hence… |