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“SEX, SCANDAL and sensationalism. It reads like a house afire in a sultry swamp!” —Liz Smith

This is the story of Robert Harrison, the man who invented modern celebrity journalism. Handsome and charming beyond belief, he was catnip to the ladies, and men wanted to be just like him. After initial success with publishing girlie magazines like Titter, Wink, and Flirt, the driven, obsessively detail-oriented Harrison created Confidential Magazine, a cultural phenomenon that turned the rules of Hollywood p.r. upside down, selling 5 million copies of every issue—more than T.V. Guide, Time, and The Saturday Evening Post. No one ever admitted buying it, but no one in America could put it down: White Glamour Girls with Black Bachelors, Homosexuals in Hollywood, Society Swells in Hock. Harrison swore to Tell the Facts and Name the Names. So he did.

Newspapers called him “The Titan of Titter Tattle” and “The Sultan of Sleaze,” with columnists breathlessly covering his nightclub tours, always with a blonde on his arm, always driving a white Cadillac, wearing a white alpaca coat, picking up the check for everyone. Harrison was a guy that wanted to be famous who ended up making everyone else famous instead. He created the monster, fed the beast and nurtured it—but in the end, the beast didn’t just bite him in the ass—it swallowed him whole.

This is also the story of Bob Harrison’s niece, Marjorie Meade, a young, newlywed living in Manhattan. She was poised. Proper. But like Joan Crawford in a Warner Bros. melodrama, all she wanted was to get up, get out, and get something more out of life. Uncle Bob sent her to Hollywood, hiring her to head up his new research organization, a vast network of tipsters and private dicks trolling for Tinseltown trash. It was her job to make sure everything was on the up and up, but soon she would be called the “Flame-Haired Femme Fatale” and “The Most Feared Woman in Hollywood,” with California prosecutors threatening prison.

And finally, bring on the goofball-popping, alcoholic, violent, Communist witch hunter, Howard Rushmore —a man so villainous, he wasn’t just hated by the Left, he wasn’t just loathed by the Middle—but after a stint working for J. Edgar Hoover, McCarthy, and Roy Cohn, the Right couldn’t stand him either. At first Harrison relied on Rushmore for one crucial business contact, but soon, Rushmore’s flameouts and betrayals would lead to grisly coast-to-coast headlines and the fall of an empire.

When he started his publishing business, Robert Harrison wanted little more than a lifetime membership in Café Society. Yet he would leave behind a legacy defined by accusations of murder, blackmail, suicide, and libel. Separating truth and fantasy would prove impossible, as his life became more and more like a story in Confidential. Luckily, Harrison loved to laugh. Even when the joke was on him.














































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