Clark Gable stood on the deck of the König and surveyed the waves rolling toward the bay of Monterey. The surf of the Pacific was blue as midnight, with low rolls of foam bubbles that bordered the shoreline like silver lace.
Gable checked the position of the sun overhead as he flicked his fishing rod and reel.
Close by, at his feet, a freshly caught three-foot marlin, quicksilver blue in the sunlight, thrashed in a metal bin.
The deckhand was nervous as he fumbled through the tackle box, searching for fishing wire.
“Look under the crate, kid,” Gable instructed. At twenty-four, the deckhand was only ten years younger than the actor, but in Hollywood, that was the age difference between pal and kid.
The deckhand lifted the wooden sleeve out of the tackle box. Neatly arranged in small compartments below were circular bundles of wire, hooks arranged by size, and a compartment of colorful lures. It reminded him of his mother’s jewelry box, filled with glittering crystal ear bobs, dainty bracelets, and a necklace of pearls.
“Hand it over, kid,” Gable said. “What’s your name?”
“David Niven, sir.” The young man stood up straight. He was tall and slim, wore white trousers, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, and a cap embroidered with a K.
“You can cut the ‘sir’ stuff.”
The deckhand swallowed hard. “But I’m British, Mr. Gable. We sir from the start.”
Gable laughed. “With that accent, you shouldn’t settle for swabbing.”
“I assure you I won’t.”
“What are you doing in America?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“You want to be an actor.”
“Why not?”
Gable laughed harder still. “You got guts.”
“No, this marlin has guts. I have something else entirely.”
“Talent?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“What are you going to tell them in casting? Because they’re going to ask you, you know.”
“I will tell them that I have desire.”
“Every background extra has that.”
“I see. Well. I’m fairly well read.”
“Nobody reads out here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m a reader,” Gable admitted.
It was hard for Niven to believe that this massive man, with a head as large as a buffalo’s and hands like the paws of a lion, could handle a leather-bound volume of anything. This was a man built for the outdoors and the hunting, shooting, skinning, hiking, and camping that went along with it. But Niven had learned to take people in Hollywood at their word, even if those words might not ring true. If Gable believed he was an intellectual, who was Niven to challenge him? Besides, the deckhand dreamed of becoming an actor, and that ambition was fueled by intense curiosity. Niven knew he could learn a lot from Gable.
“Do you find the men in charge of the studios intelligent?”
“They’re good with budgets. You have your geniuses, like Irving Thalberg. He’s a reader. The rest of them? Not so much. People read for them. Ida Koverman does most of the reading for Louis B. Mayer.”
“If they don’t read, what do the people in charge at the studios actually do?”
“They keep their noses in the wind and figure out which way it’s blowing.”
“Surely there’s more to it than that.”
“Here’s a short history of motion pictures. About twenty years ago, the Schenk brothers were running an amusement park in Palisades, New Jersey. They noticed that people were spending a lot of money watching the nickelodeons, so they hatched a scheme to put words and music to the pictures.”
“You make it sound pedestrian.”
“Now the producers tell us that movies began in the theater, that plays were the inspiration. Classics. But that’s a lot of hooey. We’re a carnival amusement. They made movies in Australia, China, Germany, long before they came here. We didn’t invent the movies, but just like anything American made, we take a good idea from anywhere and make it better. We’ve come a long way fast.”
“Any advice, sir? How does one break in to the business?”
“The accent works for you. Work the Old Britannia for all it’s worth.”
“I will indeed.”
“A ditch digger with a British accent could walk through the gates of MGM, and Louis B. Mayer would sign him up. An American ditch digger would walk through the same gate and be escorted off the lot. There’s something about you people. You sound like you have culture.”
“Lucky for me, they will never meet my family and disprove that theory.”
“Commoners?”
“Mr. Gable, you have no idea.”
“I might. I’m from Cadiz.”
“Arabia?”
“Ohio.”
“I passed through Ohio on the train. Lovely and languid.”
“If you say so. I worked the oil rigs. Met a girl and got hooked on theater. Got out. Became an actor. That’s how I ended up here.”
“There’s always a girl in the story.”
“Every picture is a love story.” Gable steadied his gaze on the water. “Even when they call it something else. They might call it an adventure, a mystery, a historical, or a Tom Mix western, but they’re all love stories.”
David Niven was aware that Gable had a reputation with the ladies. A lovely blonde had kissed him good-bye before he boarded the König that morning. Virginia Grey was a young starlet, her father a movie director, so she understood Hollywood and the life of a leading man. As Gable moved through the world, his way was made clear by women who could not get enough of him, or he of them. They had made him a star, and he owed them. Whatever he could do to repay the debt was fine with him, and in fact an obligation.
Niven studied the fan magazines to plot his course in Hollywood. Photoplay had reported Gable’s recent passionate pursuit of the actress Elizabeth Allan, an English rose who had enchanted Hollywood with her regal bearing and delicate beauty. She had a British accent, which proved Gable’s theory. It didn’t matter that Gable was married; he was a contract player, at a salary of $3,000 a week, he could buy anything or anyone he wanted, including the press, who could be convinced not to write about his private life.
David Niven could only imagine how much fun it was to be Clark Gable.
“Things are changing in Hollywood. More eyes on us.”
“I can be discreet,” Niven promised.
“You don’t have any choice in the matter. They can fire you over anything these days.”
After a decade of gum-chewing flappers, the movie business left the Roaring Twenties behind and was ready for class and couth. By 1934, hemlines had dropped, bob haircuts grew out to chignons, and breeding replaced moxie as girls went back to being women. Good taste was in style, so were the traditional values of home and hearth.
The future of the movie business would be built on a moral high ground thanks to the Hays Code. The summer of 1934 changed everything. There was a binding clause in every actor’s studio contract that said he or she accepted the responsibility of setting an ethical and decent example for the audiences that came to see them in the movies.
No longer could you play an angel; you had to be one.
The dramatic movies of the 1930s might have been filled with stories of gangsters and their molls—Gable himself had played his share of thugs and thieves—but there were consequences for bad behavior. If you sinned on the silver screen, you might die for it; if you repented, it made a splendid final scene audiences would never forget. You want them weeping on the way out. Hollywood was now in the business of hope, with plots centered on get-rich-quick schemes and love stories that brought riches along with wedding vows.
The art deco sets, layered confections of gleaming floors and vaulted ceilings, had audiences gazing up in aspirational wonder. Never mind that the Great Depression was in full force, with breadlines, unemployment, hunger, and need. The movies showed that drea
ms were as potent as reality. For a nickel, you could escape.
David Niven felt slightly guilty that he had access to the one place on earth that appeared to be unaffected by world events. It was as if the endless California sun beamed down on him, and only him, lighting a bright path to potential riches and romance.
“You’re going to do all right. You have wet eyes, Niven.”
“I’m a crybaby, sir?”
“No. The best cinematographer told me that wet eyes are the one requirement of all movie actors. The eyes make the close-up. And yours are big and blue, which doesn’t hurt.”
“I suppose every actor needs a gimmick.”
“You know what I like best about acting?”
“The ladies, sir?”
“Nope.” Gable threw the line into the water.
“Oh, I see. Fishing?” Niven said the word in such a way that it made Gable chuckle.
“And hunting and golf. I work for everything in between. The time off.”
“You work to live.”
“Exactly.” Gabe smiled.
“My mother always says that’s the key to being happy. Don’t live to work, work to live. Of course, I hardly think my mother ever thought much about pursuing happiness. She rather thought it was a bird that landed on you. It was luck.”
“I agree with your mother.”
“A charwoman can be wise and better read than any queen.”
“Your mother was a charwoman?”
“No. She just used to say that.”
“England is far away. You can make up your backstory with any details you want. You wouldn’t be the first actor to pretend that he came from royalty. The front office will cook your humble beginning and make fancy jam out of it.”
“Oh, you make it sound so easy. Is acting as much fun as it looks?”
“If the director is enjoying his work, then I’m enjoying mine.”
“How about the leading ladies?”
“They’re all right.” Gable grinned.
“I should say so, sir.”
“I can’t figure women out, and I guess that’s what keeps me interested.”
Gable surveyed the surface of the water. He tugged on the line gently. Niven stood at the ready to assist, marveling that Gable did not shrink against the vast horizon, but met its line. Other important actors and successful producers had rented the boat—Niven had swabbed for them too—but none stood out against the mighty ocean quite like this man. Gable was over six feet tall; he made the cruiser, with its wide deck and hefty sails, look like a dinghy.
Despite Gable’s stature, there was an earthiness to the star that made him approachable, more field soldier than general. Niven decided Gable was impossibly likeable. This was a man he could envision becoming his friend, but only if he could one day be his equal.
Suddenly the boat creaked and leaned. Gable’s reel bent, as he pulled back with steady force. Niven watched as Gable commandeered a ten-foot marlin out of the water, a swift arrow against a cloudless sky. With one graceful twist, Gable pulled the fish onto the deck, where it thrashed defiantly.
“Throw the baby back,” Gable said. “We’ll keep this one.”
David scooped the bin up to the rig and dumped the baby marlin back into the water, where it disappeared into the foam of the surf. “Lucky bastard.” Niven sighed. He hoped to be as lucky as the fish that got away.
Gable walked across the MGM lot on his way to his bungalow. Robert Leonard, his current director on his new film, After Office Hours, caught up with him.
“How do you like Connie Bennett?” Robert Leonard asked.
“She’s a good kid.”
“I have them rewriting the ending. I think we need to find out what happens to her.”
“Fine with me.”
Leonard looked relieved. He had been around since the silents, and felt lucky to still be working. The front office had assigned him to a Gable picture, which gave his career a desperately needed boost. Gable had been a Mae Murray fan, and seen all of Robert’s movies, so he readily agreed to have him direct After Office Hours.
“Hey, Bob.”
Robert Leonard turned to face him.
“What happened in New York?”
“You want the truth?”
“Yeah.”
“Mae and I started Tiffany Pictures, and things were going along well.”
“You put out some good movies.”
“Yeah, we did. But we couldn’t make a baby. Somehow Mae put the failure of that on the little studio we started, and she eventually divorced me because she couldn’t face me.”
“So you came back.”
“I’m lucky they wanted me back,” Robert admitted.
“Don’t ever say that, bud. Working in the studio is like pursuing a woman. You never want her to know how bad you need her.”
“I’ll keep that advice in mind, Clark.” Robert went to his office.
Gable stopped at a water fountain. He was wearing jodhpurs, a white shirt, and his riding boots. He removed his partial plate from his mouth and rinsed it in the fountain.
Anita Loos, a petite brunette and the most popular screenwriter on the lot, walked by with her secretary.
“Mr. Gable,” she greeted him.
“What do you think of the King of Hollywood without his teeth?” He popped the plate back into his mouth.
Anita laughed.
“You writing anything new for me?”
“Always. I’m cooking up a little something for you and Miss Crawford.”
“That’s always a yes from me.”
“I figured.”
Anita and her secretary watched as Gable walked away.
“I’ve found religion,” Anita said.
“The Church of Clark Gable?”
“Already a member. No, I’m taking up reincarnation. I want to come back in my next life and be whatever girl that man is sweet on. It’ll never happen in this go-round, but I want to die knowing it’s possible in the next. “
If the young people in the movie business weren’t making pictures, they were going to them.
The Pantages Theater in downtown Los Angeles had a long line of eager customers that snaked around the block. A row of palm trees outside the theater was brightly lit with klieg lamps from the roots, which threw fingers of shadow across the boulevard.
Spencer Tracy pulled up on a side street next to the theater with a car load of girls. Loretta had convinced Spencer to take Alda, her sisters, and her to see a new blockbuster, It Happened One Night. They were piled into Spencer’s car like chocolates in a box.
“You girls get the seats. Save me the aisle. I need an escape route.”
“All the clamoring fans you want to dodge?” Polly joked.
“No, I think I can handle the two of them. I’m talking about the movie. If it’s a turkey, I take off. I’m not a romance guy.”
“We know,” Loretta joked. “How do you feel about popcorn?”
“The bigger the tub the better. And don’t forget the butter.” Spencer reached into his pocket and handed money to Georgie. “I trust you with the funds.”
“I go free because I’m only nine.”
“I knew I liked you.” Spencer reached across and opened the car door.
Alda smiled. She was beginning to feel like one of the Young sisters. They included her in everything from church to going out to restaurants to going to the movies.
“You having fun?” Loretta asked Alda.
“Can you tell?”
“I can’t believe you’re the same sad-sack kid who showed up at Sunset House a month ago. You’re a different person. You’re funny and gay and light—you were so somber when you arrived.”
“I was scared. Mother Superior hadn’t explained anything. She just said I was going to be a secretary. I didn’t know what that meant.”
“So you invented it. It’s just like acting. You may not be the part you’re playing, but you pretend until you get there.”
“Mr. T
racy makes your job easy, doesn’t he?”
“And how.”
“I like him.”
Loretta was wistful. “He’s very dear. We’re just friends, you know.”
Alda nodded, but what she observed between Loretta and Spencer was more than friendship.
Loretta and Spencer were required to make publicity stills for the studio. A photographer came to the set, and Alda was to keep track of the number of photographs taken, and the context of the photographs. Spencer found a way, just by virtue of having to present particular scenes, to make the shoot last an entire afternoon. Loretta and Spencer had to hold one another, look deep into one another’s eyes, and come up with romantic clinches that would sell the movie on a poster. For Alda, the emotions behind the poses seemed real. There wasn’t a lot of romance to conjure up because it was obvious.
“I know the difference between acting and real life,” Loretta assured her. Alda nodded, but she knew that Loretta was in dangerous territory. It may have been an innocent friendship at the start, but Alda could see that emotions that had evolved over time ran deep. She was worried about Loretta, and was convinced that she would end up with a broken heart.
The Young sisters took their place on the line. Soon they were recognized, word spread, whispers turned to chatter, and they were quickly surrounded by eager fans. The girls signed autographs, and after a while the manager of the theater came outside to control the throng.
Spencer had parked the car and come around the corner to find the girls in the midst of the frenzy. He stood back and watched them, getting a kick out of their popularity and the politic way they handled the crowd. Loretta felt Spencer’s gaze. He winked at her and moved behind the shadow of the palm tree.
“Ladies, look! I think that’s Spencer Tracy from Man’s Castle!”
“Where?” the women shouted.
“Behind the tree!” She pointed.
The ladies made a stampede for Spencer Tracy, surrounding him. He shot Loretta a look. The Young sisters laughed as he was deluged with fans.
“He thinks he’s invisible,” Loretta said to Polly.
“He won’t after tonight.”