CHAPTER ONE

Los Angeles was freezing but Hobart Bosworth was drenched in his own sweat. His undershirt was plastered to his body and droplets ran like spring-fed creeks down his back. He had run down Spring to catch the little Central trolley, which was already trundling away from its most recent stop, nearly certain that Rhea Haines, one of the Famous Player starlets, but more importantly one of Rudisill's girlfriends, had seen him outside the Alexandria Hotel. As she was across the street and not on guard, as he was, he had spotted her first. The cab he had been hailing was more than a block away, and her motion indicated she was turning and would have seen him before he could escape in it. So he ran. He hadn't heard his name called out, which made him think that perhaps there was a slim chance he had slipped out of her sight. It was hard to tell. He was one of the tallest men in Hollywood, and he was certainly dressed like the movie star he was, in a tan wool suit. Normally a slender part of his vanity would have been pleased to have been noticed by someone he knew. But these times were extreme and he was desperate.

Gossip. That's what he was worried about. The path of gossip was like a lit fuse heading toward a keg of TNT. Or a snowball rolling downhill, gathering more snow. Or maybe a snowball made of TNT, he wasn't sure. Whichever it was, if she had seen him she would certainly gossip about it to Rudisill. Rudisill would tell Garbutt. Garbutt would tell Zukor. And his proverbial dynamite snowball would explode. Garbutt and Zukor, and probably Rudisill, all thought that he was in Arizona. Because that's what he had told them. When they found out he was still in Los Angeles they might find out where he was really going. Which could destroy everything he had worked to build.

As he reached for the brass rail of the trolley the thought crossed his mind that he should have given Rhea that part inPretty Mrs. Smiththat she wanted. Instead he had cast Fritzi Scheff as the eponymous heroine, after all, she was prettier. Maybe if Rhea had been cast she would have been so grateful that Hobart would fear no malice in her heart that would cause her to gossip about him. His actresses trusted him and he could trust them. There was a bond that formed. He knew how to make them look good and draw great performances from them, make them shine.

Rudisill, Garbutt, Zukor; these were powerful, rich men. More powerful than he even though he was a studio company owner and picture star. They were certainly wealthier. Wealth and power was what mattered to Rhea and other girls like her -- the ones who weren't going to get the big roles and become famous. The girls who were flooding into Los Angeles as if the dam holding back beautiful girls had burst somewhere just outside the town limits. She was looking out for herself the way a pretty girl with not much acting talent had to. That's how it worked out here in Hollywoodland and he couldn't blame her. He didn't have to like it or her. But he couldn't blame her. And she just hadn't been right for the part, after all.

His tortured lungs raged against the abuse. He had fought back against the years of tuberculosis with vigorous exercise, and the warm, dry California climate had helped immensely. But for some reason, running turned breathing into an agony akin to inhaling fire. He slid onto an empty bench and sat up against the window, closing his eyes. He focused on slowing his breathing down, the way he had been taught in the sanatorium back in Arizona, by inhaling through his nose and out through his mouth. With any luck the ache would soon recede. His eyes closed, he listened to the sounds of the city: the beeping of the automobiles, the grinding of the streetcar wheels on metal, the clip-clop of a horse-drawn delivery wagon, the murmurs of the other passengers near him. He could smell the city, too -- a familiar blend of dust and ocean, laced with a hint of orange. He never grew tired of the smell of Los Angeles. It seemed as if it was the fragrance of promise, and as he considered himself an optimist, whenever he caught a whiff of that particular blend, he always felt a little inward surge of forward momentum, a burst of hope. Even now, with threats of disaster hanging over him, he couldn't help but feel a little bit better. After all, he had a plan.

When he was finally able to inhale deeply and exhale through his mouth, he opened his eyes. The tall buildings of downtown, the Security Savings Bank, the Grosse Building, the Lankershim Hotel receded as the streetcar came up on the new auto-dealership district. After this, he rode past large tracts of undeveloped land interrupted by periodic eruptions of new small neighborhoods. If it weren't for the quality of the light, which was much brighter, this terrain could be Ohio, his boyhood home. It was at once attractive and repugnant.

He breathed a healthy-sounding sigh of relief as the streetcar bounced roughly onto the Electric Avenue line. The winter of 1915 had rolled in early and hard, and the orange trees had quickly been stripped of life and reduced to their twisted, gnarled bones. Hobart loosened his necktie and settled back against the rattan seat, letting the cool breeze blowing in from the Pacific dry his damp clothes. The more he pieced together the moments of the encounter -- separating it from his emotions -- the more confident he became that Rhea had not seen him. But that didn't change the fact that he still had to hightail it out of Los Angeles.

The trolley crested a hill, and from this vantage point he could see the sharp ribbons of glittering cobalt blue cut into the landscape just above the shoreline. It was a fascinating sight to Hobart. Only in Los Angeles, he thought. Only in a town in which the stock in trade was dreams could a man like Abbot Kinney have realized his vision of recreating the canals of Venice. And only in Los Angeles would anybody have ever thought it was a good idea. On close examination the genuine city of Venice, rising from its azure lagoon, was in and of itself a horrendous idea but at least its inspiration had been grounded in something resembling sense -- to provide a natural defense against marauders and easy access to the commerce that traveled by sea. But this California Venice had been built ten years ago as an adventure in speculative real estate development -- acres and acres plowed under and dug up, millions of dollars spent, all to create an interesting destination for the trolley. The imaginary made inevitable.

By the time he disembarked at the small station in front of the Lagoon Amphitheater opposite the amusement pier, only his damp collar remained as a reminder of his earlier mad dash. The thrill rides were shuttered for the season, the massive Ferris wheel, the twisting Automobile Races, the Mill Ride, and the Journey through Hades. A few old men dangled fishing lines from the pier into the calm waters beyond the surf. Hobart had never seen one fish caught from a pier in all the time he had spent on waterfronts in his life. But he always admired the optimism of the fisherman.

He turned his collar up and pulled his hat down against the chill wind that was blowing in off the ocean. Overhead a biplane bounced through the bright atmosphere, heading toward or coming from Ince Aviation Field in the distance. Behind him the imported Venetian gondolas tied to posts at the boathouse and grouped together like a log jam on the river thumped hollowly against one another. There were no lovers to ride today, nor gondoliers to serenade them.

Hobart walked east along what the residents referred to as the Grim Canal. The sea pumps that kept the lattice of carved waterways filled appeared to be under repair -- their natural state it seemed -- and the water was turning brackish with the waste from the settlement. It was one true thing, he noted, that Venice had in common with its namesake. He was grateful for the cool air. When the temperatures rose, so did the open sewer smell. Already there were community voices calling for filling in the canals and paving them under. He passed a flier drifting just below the surface of the water -- a call to rally against the Kaiser in the great war raging in Europe. There were always people calling for change of some kind or another -- pave Venice under or save Mother Russia -- all the same.

He made a left and took the bridge that crossed the canal past the shuttered summer cottages, over another bridge across the Altair Canal, until he reached the small cluster of bungalows on U.S. Island. At the door of one, nearly hidden behind the great ferns in the small front yard, he gave the knocker a few loud taps, then waited for the footsteps. Soon enough the door swung open. Willoughby Hollis blinked and squinted into the sudden sunlight, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes on the figure on his doorstep.

After a long look he nodded, smiled slightly, and said, "Hullo Bosworth." He took a step back and let Hobart enter. The stuntman smelled of juniper berries and strong pipe tobacco, and so did his small house.

"How have you been, Champ?" The lights were off and the curtains were drawn. Hollis shut the door with his left hand, keeping his right arm tucked tightly against his body.

"Better than ever," he replied, seemingly unaware of the spastic twitch his head gave as punctuation to his sentence.

"I was just over at the Alexandria looking for you. Allan Dwan's there rounding up every cowboy he can find for his new Fairbanks picture.The Good Bad Man."

Hollis shrugged with disinterest.

"Working much?"

"Keepin' my head up," he replied, shuffling toward the kitchen. "Want some java? I got some on."

"Sure." He sat down in a club chair, recognizing it as one of the pieces he had used a few years ago when he had first started Hobart Bosworth Productions with the filmThe Sea Wolf.Willoughby had taken them away when the wear and tear began to show on film. Now the leather cover was cracked and the cotton stuffing was leaking out in tufts. Willoughby came back carrying two large clay mugs, more props that Hobart recognized -- these from his Canadian stories. Again, Willoughby kept his right arm close, even though it made holding the mug awkward. He handed Bosworth the other mug from his left hand.

"Busted rib?" Hobart gave a slight indication to Willoughby's right side.

"Ribs," he said with a groan as he lowered himself into the club chair's twin on the other side of the small coffee table. "Three of 'em." His head snapped spastically again and he grinned, revealing the bloody gap between his incisors. "A rough shoot."

He was lying. Hobart knew that if Willoughby had been injured in a fight scene that he would have heard about it on the grapevine. His old friend's injuries were not the result of a staged bar fight gone out of control and they weren't from a fall off a horse. Willoughby had been picking up money at the Friday night fights.

Hobart had met Willoughby in a match in Chicago years earlier when they were both in their early twenties -- before Hobart had heard the call of the stage lights. Willoughby was the more experienced of the two, and slightly bigger. But the difference then, as it was now, was that Willoughby seemed to like the punishment of the ring and used it to fuel his combat, whereas Hobart avoided pain at all costs by striking earlier and faster. It was one of the reasons why Hobart's nose remained straight, and long, and handsome, while Willoughby's was spread across his face like the flattened mesas in Monument Valley. It was also one of the reasons why he had been, at least at one time, one of the most in-demand stuntmen in town.

In their first meeting, as in their second and third, Hobart had left the bigger man drooling on the canvas and fumbling for his mouthpiece. To Willoughby, the only man he could respect was one who had whupped him, which meant that he respected very few men. To those he did, his loyalty was deep and faithful and always earnestly surprising. When Hobart had succumbed to the lure of the movies, his friend left the fight and rodeo circuits behind to join him. As Bosworth's star had ascended, so did his need for a stunt double. Willoughby's physique was enough like his that he could pass on film. Hobart's hope was that there was still enough of that resemblance now for him to fool another more perceptive and less forgiving audience.

"I'm hoping what brought you out here was some of that money you owed me," Willoughby said, the missing teeth turning his "s" sounds into sputtering lisps.

"To my recollection we're all square. The lawyer that kept you from going to jail on a drunk and disorderly didn't come cheap."

"I'd have taken my pinch. At least I'd a had some of my life savin's waitin' for me when I came out."

"You made an investment in my company, same as others have."

"And when's that gonna start payin' off for me again exactly?"

"You know, it's not a sure thing, show business. We're doing about as well as anybody else. But the houses take their share, and the distributors, and then there's equipment and the Teamsters."

"And you haven't had a hit sinceSea Wolf."

"My pictures do well."

"But you haven't had a hit in two years. And hits pay the bills. And pay back investors. So I haven't got my money back." He rubbed his left hand over his right side.

"There's a gig," Hobart said. "A good one."

"So. So what's the gig? I don't know if you could tell by lookin' at me, but I ain't in shape for fallin' down right now. Or much of anything else."

"It's a part," he replied. "A real part."

Willoughby laughed. "Acting? I'd rather fall off a roof. You can't put this mug on film. You'd scare away the audience. We're trying to make money, remember?"

"It's a part you can play. I know you'll be good at it."

"What is it? The part?"

"Me."

"Come again?"

"I need you to play me."

"That's gonna be some kind of picture."

"It's not a picture. I need you to move into my house and pretend you're me."

"Over in Westlake? And give up all this? Okay."

"Listen to me. There's more to it than that."

"I said okay."

"Hang on, Champ. I've been putting it out that my tuberculosis is back. I've been out to Arizona for some treatment and now I'm shutting myself in to recuperate."

"You ain't sick?" Willoughby drew back slightly.

Hobart shook his head. "No. But you were right about needing a hit. In fact, we need a hit real bad.Birth of a Nationbig. But without the troubles. One hit will put us in great shape. Hobart Bosworth Productions will be the going concern in town. Bigger than Biograph. Bigger than Famous Players. There are people who know that. People who want a piece."

"Other investors?"

"Something like that."

"Jesus, Bosworth. When are you going to realize that you're just an actor, not a businessman?"

"I have a plan and I need your help. I need for people to think that I'm still in town."

"Where are you going to be?"

"North."

"Where?"

"Will you do it or won't you?"

"Well, hell, brother! I already said I'd do it."

"So you'll lay low and let people think it's me holed up in my home?"

"With this face the way it is right now it's just as well I stay indoors."

Hobart stood up and fished for his keys. "You're the only one who knows. I've had to let the servant staff go." Willoughby, taking the keys, shook his head at the word "servant." "The larder and bar are fully stocked. There's everything you need plus five hundred dollars in cash in an envelope in the desk in my study." He didn't want to mention that the sum amounted to a little more than half of his overall current worth; the rest he carried on him. If his plan worked as he hoped then the money would be flowing again soon. "If anyone calls you just answer the phone, sound like me sick, and tell them to go away. Don't let anyone in at the gate. But let yourself be seen by passersby and delivery boys at the head of the path."

"How long will you be away to the north?"

"Only a week or so, I hope." He heard the distant buzzing of the biplane again. He hoped his gear had arrived at the airfield safely. He'd had to use a courier service that wouldn't recognize his name instead of the regular studio messenger. He would know soon enough; a quick glance at his pocket watch showed that he was due to meet his charter in half an hour. "You'll do it?"

"How many times do I have to say I'll do it? I'll do it."

"Okay. You'll go today?"

"As soon as I wrap up my affairs."

"I'm serious."

"Relax, chum," Willoughby said with a horrifying grin. "I'm on my way already."

Hobart opened the door and the brightness startled him. He had grown accustomed to the darkness of Willoughby's home. He felt Willoughby moving up behind him.

"What's your big plan for getting a hit? What are you going to do?"

Hobart Bosworth watched the small red plane on the horizon head in for a landing. "I'm going to catch a wolf."

Excerpted from Jack London in Paradise: A Novel by Paul Malmont
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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Jack London in Paradise A Novel

9781416547235

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