Date:         Sat, 30 May 1998 02:40:45 -0400
From: "J. Hall" <jhall@LEMOORENET.COM>
Subject:      Re: [WRITERS] INT: Goldman Pictures, Lights,
              Camera and which kind of action????

>       "You amaze me."
>       "The sun is setting.  Lets go out to the Hills, watch it slip."
>       "If I'm not careful I might slip."
>       "You are thinking out loud again, Jeff.  Come on, be a sport."  She
>smiled at him, her lips writing promises Jeff was hesitant to cash.
>
        My Crosley didn't like hills.  I wondered if Fred Astaire would loan me
his Rolls to take a mobster's daughter up to the lip of Laurel Canyon so
she could seduce me into taking over the rackets of LA with her.
        Probably not.
         She was sitting very close to me as we swerved up the snaking sides of
the Hollywood hills, a paper sack of take out Chinese blending mu-shu pork
and chow fun with mesquite and gardenias.  The chinese had been my idea.
Food, once a familiar companion, had seemed to take a holiday recently and
I didn't want to have to face the evening on an empty tank.
        I pulled onto a dirt road near the top and the back wheels spun in the
dust, finally catching enough to push us up under a grove of oversized
scrub oak.  A stone marker set off to one side and a picnic table with a
bench missing told me I'd made the right exit.
        "What is this place?" she asked.  "Your own little casting couch?"  Her
voice was soft, and I laughed then caught a mouthful of drifting dust from
below.
        "Very funny," I coughed. She grabbed the bag and got out.  I walked 
around to the trunk and popped it, pulliing out a musty quilt.  I shook it out 
and watched the motes blend in the the fading light through the overhanging
branches. Below, surprisingly far below, the little streetlights of LA were
winking on and a cool finger of ocean breeze blew up the canyon walls
riffling leaves overhead.
        Other than the tickticktick of the car's engine there was no other 
sound.
        I ducked when the shot came.
        Her laughter was as unexpected as the champagne bottle she was carrying,
foam dripping off the long black neck.
        "Where the hell did you hide that?" I demanded.
        "I'll never tell," she smirked.  "A lady has to have some secrets."
        I spread the blanket out over a relatively flat hummock of grass under 
the biggest tree and waited for her.
        Later, when the take out boxes were empty, we sipped  lukewarm Mumms and
watched the last of the sun drop below the little ridge that was Catalina.
Clear days were getting rarer and I wondered why.
        I had a brilliant idea and got up to turn the car radio on.  A quick
search found Jimmy Diamond's all-night concert show already in progress
from the Beverly Wilshire ballroom.  Les Brown was just warming up, heading
into Sentimental Journey and I sat back down, much too close to her.
        She leaned against me and a little bright line of fire lit up the sky,
then vanished in the purple of the horizon.
        Waltzes hell, I was hearing Edward Hermann conducting his own goddamn
symphony inside.
        I leaned over and began to sing softly into her ear.  "Gonna take..a
sentimental journey..gonna set..my .."
        I didn't make it past the first chorus.
        "Shut up and kiss me," she said, and took my head fiercely in her hands.
        "Yes, boss," I murmurred.  As her face disappeared, I heard Doris Day
crooning quietly under the oncoming stars..


to be continued..