Mildred Pierced Read Free Page B

Astaire had been with RKO. Crawford, until she walked out or was pushed out of her contract two years earlier, had been with MGM. Most of the people I knew in the business had been with or still were with Warner Brothers. I had spent five years there as a security guard until the day I punched a B-movie cowboy star who had been making a young actress more than uncomfortable on the set. I broke his nose. They had to shoot the movie he was making around him. I had the distinction of being fired directly by Harry Warner.
    I knew a little about Crawford, the things that everyone—fans and movie people—knew, and some things only a few people knew. For example, everyone knew that she had been married to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. and Franchot Tone and was now married to Phillip Terry, whose movie career had taken a dive into the La Brea Tar Pits.
    Crawford had been linked romantically to almost every male star she had ever acted with, which made the list stretch all the way back to Lon Chaney, Sr., in the silent days, and on up to Robert Montgomery and Clark Gable in the more recent past.
    Crawford also had the reputation of being unpredictable. Thirty-nine years old the morning I rang her bell, she was reportedly supportive of younger actors. Actresses her own age or close to it, however, could expect no mercy.
    The world knew she had two young adopted children, Christina and Phillip, Jr. The world did not know, but Astaire told me, that she was “unusually interested in cleanliness.”
    “Every time she gets a new husband, she changes the toilet seats,” he said on the phone. “She … you’ll see. She’s an underrated actress, and an underrated dancer. I worked with her in my first picture. Never got the chance again, but she was generous, rehearsed hard. I’d be happy to be in a picture with her again. I’ll give her a call.”
    My pants were tan and reasonably clean if a bit frayed at the bottom should someone look closely. My shirt was white and not too badly wrinkled. My tie was simple, dark brown, and showed none of the stains I knew had to be there.
    Before I rang the doorbell, I looked at my reflection in the small window at eye level. I’m not sure I’d open the door for the face I saw: My nose is almost flat, and some of the scar tissue shows if you look closely. I have a lopsided grin that looks more like a threat than a smile. I brushed back my dark hair, which revealed more than a little gray and tried not to smile.
    I rang again.
    She opened the door. I recognized the face. It was definitely Joan Crawford, shorter than I imagined her, about five-four, softer looking without makeup. She was wearing a blue-and-white bandanna around her hair and was dressed in slacks and a dark shirt, covered by a green-stained white apron. She wore heavy gloves and carried a pointed trowel in her right hand.
    “You’re …?” She examined me.
    “Toby Peters,” I said. “Fred Astaire said he was going to call you about me.”
    “He did. Come in, but take off your shoes and leave them in the hallway.”
    She stepped back as I knelt to remove my shoes.
    “Your hands,” she said.
    I looked up.
    “Show me your hands, please,” she said with a smile that pleaded for indulgence.
    I showed her my hands.
    “I’d appreciate it if you would wash your hands. I’ll show you where.”
    I finished with my shoes and placed them just inside the door. She closed it and led the way.
    “We use only half the house now,” she said.
    I wondered if the reason was that she hadn’t made a movie in over two years except for a walk-on as herself in Hollywood Canteen or because her husband Phil Terry’s career had gone from almost up there to out of the business.
    She led the way to a small, sunshine-bright kitchen, then turned to smile at me as she nodded toward the sink.
    “I was working in the garden,” she said proudly, looking at the window.
    I looked out it myself as I washed. There was a good-sized vegetable garden. She put down