Chasing Salomé - a novel of 1920s Hollywood

CHAPTER 1

opened the mahogany-and-glass doors of the é with a flourish that sent her scarlet satin opera cape swirling around her. Years of performing in the theater had trained her in the art of the dramatic entrance, so she knew that the light from the crystal chandelier directly above would catch the sparkle in her sapphire necklace and bring out the violet in her eyes.

The ître d' was a rotund chap who looked like he enjoyed his brandies. "Oh, Madame!" He scurried out from behind his podium. "What an honor to have you dine with us tonight!"

"Thank you, Emile." Alla watched him count the number in her party. "My husband is unable to join us this evening." He didn't need to know that Alla had no desire for Charles to be there. She had someone else in tow that night—and it wasn't her husband.

The Ship Café was neither a ship nor a café. It was a restaurant that had been fashioned to resemble a Spanish galleon and lashed to the Venice Beach pier. It was one of those novelty places that Los Angeles architects had lately been conjuring with unfettered abandon. But with its sloping walls and low-slung ceiling striped with wooden beams, the overall ambiance was effectively nautical.

She had chosen it for tonight's celebration precisely because, like most things in Hollywood, it was not what it appeared to be. Adorned in their modish Paris gowns and tuxedos with black silk lapels, most people in Hollywood were not what they appeared to be, either, but in Los Angeles that was hardly a crime.

Emile collected an armful of menus and led them toward the center of the room.

As Alla zigzagged through the maze of tables, heads turned, eyes stared, mouths gaped. Earlier that day she had completed her fifth film in the twelve months since arriving in California to begin her contract for . Every one of them had been a blazing success, so now she was recognized wherever she went. She smiled regally, her right hand fluttering like a captive dove until she reached the head of the table, where she took a seat and patted the right-hand-side silver setting for her new love, Jean.

, a dark, sleek, swan-like actress who had appeared in Alla's latest picture, slid onto the seat to her left. "I'm so glad you chose this place. Ever since that wretched started worming through Congress, it's been getting harder and harder to find a drink around this burg. The other night, we had to drive all the way to the Vernon Country Club, and you know how far that is. Don't get me wrong—the whiskey was terrific and the Paul Whiteman Orchestra was playing, so we had a great time. But brother, what a trek!"

"UGH!" Dana exclaimed from further down the table. She, too, was a Metro star and a salt-of-the-earth type, the way girls from Brooklyn could be. "Imagine if it actually passes. Why even leave the house?"

"Of course it'll pass." Karger was the studio manager at Metro. An okay sort of chap, but a little too weak-of-chin for Alla's tastes. "More than thirty of the forty-eight states are already dry. It's just a matter of time."

He was right, of course. Prohibition felt like a swarm of locusts massing on the distant horizon—close enough to hear the relentless thrumming that warned of a time when alcohol would become as scarce as fresh peaches in a Russian winter.

"In that case, let us carpe diem while we may." Alla raised her hand to attract the waiter lingering at their periphery. "Your finest champagne, please. Preferably ët et Chandon or Veuve Clicquot."

He cleared his throat. "We've had quite a run on champagne of late and unfortunately we're out of both those labels."

"What's left? Taittinger? Mumm?" Alla ignored the evil eye that Karger shot her. She knew what he was thinking. These labels are expensive. If you're assuming that Metro is going to underwrite your extravagant tastes . . . She stroked his quivering cheek. "Fret not, mon cher. Madame shall be footing the bill tonight."