I couldn’t figure out if Hoff was so confused that he was lost, or if he knew a super shortcut to wherever we were going. We dodged a truckload of balsa lamp posts, stepped through a small town street which I recognized as Andy Hardy’s Carvel, and backed up as an assorted group of convicts and Apache Indians hurried past.
We finally stopped at a row of doors leading into a squat, wooden building.
“Judy starts working in Ziegfield Girl tomorrow,” Hoff explained, his hand hovering over the door handle. “She’s got a tough schedule, and we don’t want her bothered too much about this.”
“I’ll just kiss her hand, get her autograph on my back, and leave,” I assured him.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
“I know what you mean,” I answered. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to take it easy. There were plenty of jobs at Columbia and 20th Century for a good M.G.M. reject.
“And I used to play football,” he said softly.
“That a fact?” I said, not knowing what to say. The statement didn’t seem to make sense, but I had the odd feeling that I understood why he was saying it. I didn’t exactly like him, but I was closer to understanding him. He knocked at the wooden door and a feminine voice said, “Who is it?”
It wasn’t Judy Garland’s voice.
“Warren,” said Warren Hoff. His voice had dropped two octaves to confident baritone. The woman told us to come in, and Warren underwent a transformation as he pushed the door open. He became a different man, taller, smiling, and full of quiet confidence.
When we entered the room, I found out what the transformation was all about. Before us, in the dressing room, stood a dark, beautiful woman. She was wearing a black sweater, a knit skirt, and a slight smile behind the most perfect soft mouth that I had ever seen. Her eyes were narrow, almost Oriental. For some reason there was a tape measure around her neck. I found out the reason when Warren Hoff introduced us.
“Cassie James, this is Toby Peters, the man Miss Garland called,” he said. I noticed that Judy had become Miss Garland. “Cassie is a costume designer and a friend of Miss Garland’s.”
Cassie James extended her right hand, and I took it. It was firm, warm and tender. Up close she was a few years older than she had looked from the doorway. I guessed her to be about 35, a perfect 35. I released her hand before she could see the excitement building in me. The same hormonal response was bursting out through Warren Hoff’s pores.
“Is Miss Garland here, Cassie?” Hoff said showing a beautiful double row of near-white teeth. He was clearly a Kolynos toothpaste man. What was their ad? “Now you can make your teeth look their romantic best.”
I never knew what I was brushing my teeth with. I used samples the drug company salesmen gave to Sheldon Minck, the dentist I shared my office with.
“Judy took a… something to calm her nerves,” Cassie James explained softly. “I think she’s sleeping.”
“No, I’m not.”
The voice came from the other side of a high-backed, flower-decorated sofa in the corner. Judy Garland sat up and looked sleepily at the three of us.
Cassie James stepped over to her and took her hand.
“This is Mr. Peters, Judy,” she explained. “The man you called.”
The name rang a bell, and she brushed some of the sleep from her eyes. She stood up and tried a weak smile, but I could see that something had gotten to her, probably the dead Munchkin. She was several things I didn’t expect. I had seen the little girl in The Wizard of Oz. It was the same person, but she was not a little girl. She was also shorter than I expected, no more than 5’2”, and her clothes were definitely not little girl’s clothes. She wore a white fluffy dress with a big patent leather belt, and her hair was built up on her head to make her look taller or older or both.
“Mr. Peters,” she said taking my hands. The voice belonged to a more familiar Dorothy of Kansas, but it was filled with sadness and pleading. I wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right. If she cried, and she looked as if she might, I probably would have turned into a fool running around looking for a handkerchief.
From the corner of my eye I could see Hoff sliding his way to Cassie James’s side. He was looking at Judy Garland, but the body warmth was going to Cassie James. I didn’t feel sorry for my pal Warren anymore.
“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble, Mr. Peters,” Judy Garland continued, that near sob in her voice, “but I panicked. You know how that can happen? I… Cassie and I saw him lying there, and I just turned and ran to the nearest phone and called information. They gave me your office, and a Dr. Minck told me you were at Warner Brothers and I just…” She shrugged, gulping in air, and led me to the sofa. We sat while she held both of my hands tightly and looked into my eyes. My God, there was a tear forming in one eye. In another second, I’d be lost.
“You knew the dead man?” I asked.
She shook her head in a decided, sad no.
“To tell the truth, Mr. Peters,” she said softly, “I… I didn’t even like most of the little people who worked on the film. They like to be called little people, you know, not midgets or dwarfs.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, noticing that Cassie James was listening to our conversation with concern, and that Hoff was so close to her I couldn’t tell if they were touching. “Why didn’t you like them?”
“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t dislike all of them, just some of them. One especially who kept touching me and asking for dates and saying things. I…”
“O.K., O.K.” I said. “You saw the dead Munchkin, and you felt glad and guilty. I’ve seen a few dead ones, and my first reaction was always, I’m glad it’s not me. The second reaction is to feel queasy in the stomach. Cops, hospital people, and some soldiers get used to it, but the rest of us feel lucky, sick, and guilty.”
“I guess it was something like that,” she said taking a deep breath. “Mr. Peters,” she began, and then turned her head toward Cassie James. “Cassie, could I please talk to Mr. Peters alone for a minute?”
Cassie James showed a slight smile of perfect teeth and an understanding turn of her head as she led a pleased and confident looking Hoff outside and closed the door behind her. Hoff was one hell of an actor for a PR man-inside, he was filled with fear for his six-figure job, but to look at him now you’d think he was William Powell.
My attention turned back to Judy Garland, who was watching my face.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” the girl-woman said.
I thought about lying, pretending I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I also felt that I didn’t have to.
“She is,” I said.
“I wish I could be beautiful like that,” she sighed.
“You are beautiful, and you’ll get better,” I said.
“Mr. Peters, I am not a fool.” Her voice was stronger now, waking up. “I’m a plain 18-year-old girl who can sing. As my mother says, I’ve got the talent, but not the looks. I’m playing a woman for the first time in Ziegfield Girls, and we start shooting tomorrow. You know who I’ll be with in that picture? Lana Turner and Hedy Lamarr. Any beauty I’ve got has to be put there by makeup, lights and experts.”
“You’re underrating yourself,” I said, uncomfortable with the role of confidant to a teenager. Besides, who was I to give advice on beauty? On a good day, I could pass for the steady loser in tank town five-rounders.
She looked at me steadily, and almost whispered, “I got a call to go to that set. Someone called this room and told me Mr. Mayer wanted me to get over there fast for some publicity shots with Wendel Willkie.”