Treachery Unmasked

By Dorian Rockwood

Success comes at a steep price, if you are willing to pay it.

Sammy Taylor was 1940's Hollywood's next big thing. At only 14, he is entering a crucial age for child actors in an industry known for chewing them up and spitting them out. Knowing he doesn't have much more time to move into older, adult parts, and with his contract expiring at his current studio, Sammy follows along as his mother and agent seek a new home. None other than the biggest major, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer!

Life is beginning to look up, but when his mother is arrested for passing counterfeit money Sammy sees his world start to fall apart. His All American film image in jeopardy, as well as his future career, Sammy starts a private investigation into where the money came from. His problems are only beginning as other characters settle on his heels: a man who may or may not be a Federal agent, a German speaking man ransacking his room, plus a mysterious hooded and cloaked figure.

Events spiral out of control as Sammy discovers a wide reaching conspiracy reaching all the way back to Nazi Germany. Time is running out as Sammy and his friend collide with nefarious forces bent on destruction of the United States economy – and them, if they get in the way.

And there's one truth about Hollywood – nothing is what it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Insundry Productions Books
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736801345

Book preview

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TREACHERY UNMASKED

Copyright © 2022 by Dorian Rockwood

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact:

Insundry Productions Books

www.insundryproductions.com

Cover design by 100covers.com

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7368013-3-8

ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7368013-4-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022908855

Contents

1. CHAPTER ONE

2. CHAPTER TWO

3. CHAPTER THREE

4. CHAPTER FOUR

5. CHAPTER FIVE

6. CHAPTER SIX

7. CHAPTER SEVEN

8. CHAPTER EIGHT

9. CHAPTER NINE

10. CHAPTER TEN

11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

12. CHAPTER TWELVE

13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THAT'S A WRAP!

AUTHOR’S NOTE

WHO ARE THOSE PEOPLE?

Chapter one

Sammy Taylor opened his dressing room door and almost walked straight into the monk. The monk – or somebody dressed in a monk’s costume – was rifling through the items on his make-up table.

Hey! Sammy challenged. What do you think you’re– The intruder swung around. His cowl framed a soft, smooth, almost beautiful face, violently slashed by thin, red lips.

"Aus mein weg, kind," the intruder snarled, grabbing Sammy’s wrist with a slender, but powerful well-manicured fingers. He flung Sammy aside like a dog tossing an old shoe, then fled.

The young actor smacked into the corner and slid to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he charged after the mysterious figure to the outside corridor which ran along the dressing rooms. It was empty, so Sammy headed to the stairs at one end of the building and hurried down the steps, his eyes peeled for his quarry. When he finally reached the bottom, he tripped rushing forwards, his feet tangled in something carelessly discarded: the monk’s robe. He scooped it up and read the label, confirming what he thought was going to written on it: Paragon Pictures Wardrobe Department.

Figures, Sammy thought as he scanned the street between two of the of studio’s huge, hanger-like sound stages, hoping to spot his uninvited guest. The men’s dressing rooms were built three stories high and one deep along the east wall of Stage 10, while the women’s stood at the opposite corner of the same building. More dressing rooms took up the center third of Stage 11’s exterior wall on the opposite side of the street.

Paragon Pictures was not a top-tier move studio, but it was a busy one. Many of the units had wrapped shooting for the day and people were heading for their dressing rooms, the nearby backlot, or the main gate. They bustled down the pavement between the white-stuccoed sound stages, which gleamed in the California sun like ancient temples to the gods of fame.

The would-be burglar simply disappeared into the crowd. Sammy stomped back upstairs, wadded up the costume and threw it into a corner of his dressing room. His secret, he believed, was still, well, secret. How did that monk – or whoever it really was – find it out?

A voice interrupted his thoughts. Phew. Long shoot today.

Gene Knowles, Sammy’s 8-by-10 glossy photo handsome co-star, appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the jamb, his costume’s jacket slung over one arm, his tie unloosened, his untucked shirt unbuttoned and the outfit’s silly scoutmaster’s hat pushed back.

Did you ask your mother about the game Sunday? asked Gene as he threw an imaginary football.

I’m not sure I can go. I have a pile of scripts to look at... Sammy started.

We shoot six days a week! The one day we’re off and you want to read scripts! Gene said. Remember the old saying, all work and no play–

A yoo-hoo from the corridor stopped Gene before he could finish. He moved aside to admit a tall, willowy woman into the room. She was a little too overdressed, wore a little too much makeup and her hair was a little too red.

Hello, darling, Mrs. Taylor trilled.

Hi, Mom, Sammy said and indicated Gene. Mom, this is Gene. Gene, this is my mom.

Oh, so you’re Gene! Mrs. Taylor smiled as she held out her hand, palm down, like a queen in a receiving line. I feel I know you already. Sammy is always talking about you.

Uh, pleased to meet you. Gene tried to arrange his tousled outfit into some sort of respectable shape, but gave up and lightly shook her hand. Excuse me, I need to change. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sammy. A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.

Ma’am? Mrs. Taylor’s laugh tinkled like tin wind chimes. A good-looking young brute like you hasn’t called me ‘ma’am’ for a long time!

Gene blushed and bowed slightly. He backed out of the room, mumbling something indiscernible.

So how was shooting today? Mrs. Taylor perched on the stool in front of the mirror, no easy feat given how tight the dress was.

Pretty good, Mom. I got a couple of close-ups.

My, how marvelous! Say, listen, darling, can you manage dinner by yourself tonight?

Why should this night be any different, he thought, so he shrugged. Sure.

You see, Marty and I are going over to the Coconut Grove, to eat supper with an assistant to a producer... she leaned close to Sammy’s ears and whispered, ...from Metro! She peered at Sammy as though she had told him about a surprise trip to the circus. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and stale liquor. Wouldn’t you like working there? Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios? ‘More stars than in heaven’? The billboard by the lot says so.

I guess so, Sammy allowed. But–

You guess so! She laughed and lowered her voice. It may be twice the money than old skinflint Bates gives us. Not only that, but you’ll get better scripts. Something more worthy of your talent.

Mom, I like Paragon, Sammy protested.

His mother snorted. Paragon Pictures! Pinch-penny Pictures, more like it! At Metro, you’d work with real stars, like Clark Gable, or Jimmy Stewart, or maybe even Judy Garland. Not to mention having actual directors, not washed-up has-beens like English. She picked lint off Sammy’s coat as she continued, Now dear, we have to be open to any offers. Your contract’s nearly up.

I know, Sammy breathed out irritably. The thought had not strayed far from his mind during the last few months.

You have to remember you’ve turned fourteen, darling, an awkward age in the industry. Not quite a child, not quite an adult... As she spoke, Mrs. Taylor reviewed her reflection in the mirror. She took a tissue from her small, glittery, handbag and touched up her lipstick. "Roles are going to, well, let’s say, may be more difficult to come by. This is a very crucial time in your career. We need to make the right decisions."

Yes, I know, but, Mom, I don’t want to leave Paragon. I want them to renew. I get big parts here. Lots of screen time. I mean, Metro is so huge. Look who’s already over there, Sammy started counting off with his fingers, Mickey Rooney, Freddie Bartholomew, Johnny Sheffield...

You would have made a much better Boy in that Tarzan picture than Johnny Sheffield, Sammy’s mother sniffed.

I know I would have, but that’s not the point, Sammy groaned. Those guys are signed there. They would get all the good parts, not me. Metro has so many contract players, I would get lost in the crowd, ending up in roles with three lines, billed as ‘Boy Number Four.’ If I got any screen credit at all, that is. Listen, Marty’s my agent, so let him earn his ten percent. Let him negotiate with Bates. You’re always going ahead and doing things without telling me or asking me. Can’t you wait to see what I want for once?

Mrs. Taylor jerked back from the mirror and eyeballed Sammy as though he just popped steaming out of the oven. Little Sammy, darling, how could you say something like that? She dug around in her clutch purse for a hankie. She pulled one out and dabbed her brimming eyes, looking upwards and extending her neck prettily. Why, everything I do, I do for my precious little boy’s career. And to think that he doesn’t appreciate it, well, what is this world is coming to, I’d like to know...

Sammy shot an uncomfortable look through the open door. He didn’t want a scene now, not right here, not in front of anybody who just happened to be walking past. It would be better to cut her off before the inevitable waterworks. He laid his hands on her shoulders. Mom, I didn’t mean it. I know you do what’s best for me. It’s been a long day. I guess I’m just tired.

Mrs. Taylor smiled. She stuffed the hankie back into her purse and snapped it shut like a lawyer winning a case. Of course you are. Well, I must be off. He turned his head while his mother pecked him on the cheek. Her eyes were desert dry. Sometimes, Sammy wondered just who the actor was in the family.

Oh, by the way darling, I’m a little short. Mrs. Taylor looked in the mirror once more to primp her hair. Do you suppose you could spot your old mother some more moola?

Sure, Mom, Sammy said. He pulled a crisp, only-folded-once twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and held it out.

Don’t you spend your allowance I give you? Mrs. Taylor laughed as she grasped the twenty with her thumb and index finger, pinky held delicately out, like she was picking up a bone china tea cup. At least you won’t end up like that Jackie kid... what was his last name again?

Coogan, Sammy replied. He knew she knew the last name.

You better believe I won’t end up like him, he pledged to himself. One-time child actor Jackie Coogan discovered when he turned twenty-one that his mother and stepfather had spent almost all his wages, millions of dollars, leaving him with next to nothing. Because of the case, four years ago the California legislature passed a law to safeguard a child actor’s earnings; Sammy even wrote a letter in support. Now Sammy demanded a yearly meeting with his mother and agent and made them account for every single dime of his money. He knew it annoyed them, but he didn’t care. Coogan’s fate was not going to befall him. So, Sammy smiled at his mother’s joke, aware that his mother understood full well he was the sole source of the household’s entire income.

Thank you, darling. Don’t wait up. Mrs. Taylor giggled as she took the money. She shimmied her way to her feet like a snake shedding its skin and twiddled her fingers over her shoulder as she left.

His mind darted back to his unexpected visitor. Poking his head out the door, he checked the breezeway. The coast was clear. He closed the door, then the blinds to be safe. Going to the dressing table, he pulled the right drawer all the way out. He placed it on the floor, then peered into the opening. The dressing table was built against the wall. Another actor years ago must have slammed the drawer hard, smashing through the plaster. The resulting hole formed a handy vault. He reached into the cavity and drew out a stack of crisp new twenty-dollar bills. Sammy grinned. The monk missed the cache in his search. Footsteps sounded along the corridor. Sammy froze, ready to pop the wad back into its concealed home. He listened as the footsteps passed by and another door opened and closed a few dressing rooms away. He sighed with relief.

Sammy sat on the floor and fanned the cash. That little voice started up nagging again: You found the money. You should have turned it in. You should have told somebody. You should have left it alone.

Should. Should. Should. You should take a vacation in Florida, he said aloud, silencing the scold. He slapped the twenties against his hand. Nuts! Finders keepers!

He hadn’t breathed a word about his lucky find to anyone. Whomever the prowler was couldn’t have known about it. Must have been an extra trying to add a little something more to his day’s pay. Things like that happen all the time, everyday even. Stuffing the bills back into the secret stash, he replaced the drawer.

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Actors!

The assistant director’s bray shredded the sound stage’s dead, echo-less air early the next morning. Sammy yawned as he got out of his canvas-backed chair and headed for the bright area bathed in the hot overhead lights.

The unit was shooting on Stage 8, one of the smallest on the lot. The south wall held a window and door which was a part of a false-front exterior which opened directly on the Western Street and connected to a permanent, standing interior set of a sheriff’s office. Today, however, the Art Department provided a convenient stack of crates to block the camera’s view of the jail cell to allow the setting to double as the seedy meeting place of a couple of the picture’s villainous henchmen.

The day player, a heavyset man with thinning hair and a greasy mustache sat down behind the desk with a groan. Two stuntmen took their places, flanking the desk. Gene stood in front of it. Sammy, wearing a copy of Gene’s uniform, double checked his chalk mark on the floor and put his toes on it, next to Gene.

Bennet Malcolm, an erect and slender middle-aged actor with a mane of silver hair and a profile straight off a Roman coin, strode on the set. He turned to Sammy. ‘Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue,’ young Sammy, Bennet intoned.

Sammy thought a moment. "Hamlet, Mr. Malcolm?"

"Yes, indeed, you are correct! Hamlet, Act III, scene 2, Bennet beamed and clapped Sammy on the shoulder, then winked. All except the young Sammy part. Ah,