Date: Mon, 25 May 1998 00:27:24 -0700 From: "J. Hall" Subject: Re: [WRITERS] INT: Goldman Pictures She was a looker alright, but I'd seen lookers before. This town was built on them, their hopes, their little dreams. I slipped a five over the seat and told the cabbie to wait. He was vaguely familiar, a cornpone type with dagwood hair and a chipped front tooth. "Course ah'll wait, mister, been waitin to get back in this studio for along time." His face lit up with an inner glow of the projector. Another actor. "Ya evah see 'They Died With Their Boots On'?," he asked as I was climbing out. "Yeah, Flynn, General Custer," I said, never taking my eyes off the retreating blue jacket of the lady. She was halfway in the door of Goldman's executive suite when I realized where I'd seen him. "Got a bit piece in that," he laughed. "Shot in the third reel off a goddamn pinto. They wanted me to take an arrah but Stunts couldnt find me for a padded shirt. Faked it first take and-" I slammed the door and turned up the walkway past the neatly painted rocks. "Just sit tight, trooper," I said, and tried to think of a decent front to get past the receptionist. The doors were glass of course, tinted blue, with GS engraved in a funny little crest. Goldman had about as much of heraldic right to a coat of arms as Smoot's Goat but it was impressive. Amazing what a little money and a thousand stagecrafters could do. I decided to try honesty. For once. The receptionist was a frost job, probably 45, old man with a plate from Guadalcanal. Her powder was exquisite though, and the lipstick painted on by Titian. "Can I help you?," she intoned, taking in my brown suit and loosely knotted black silk tie. It was what passed for business attire in my business. "Here to see Dick Powell," I said, giving her my best my-but-it's-a-lovely-day smile. She gave it back to me, slightly chilled. "Mr Powell is in Spain at the moment, was he expecting you?" I watched the elevator at the rear of the office slide shut with a hissy 'snick'. "Yes of course he is, I'm his brother, Rick." "Rick and Dick, how charming," she nodded, her teeth making slight clicking noises. Store teeth, but good ones. I leaned over the desk and beamed down her dress. "Mother," I whispered into her right eyebrow (not plucked but furrowed with curiosity anyway), "always thought so. She named us after dad's balls." I chanced a glance at the floor indicator. The elevator had gone to the top, and was not coming down. "His..balls?" "Dad was a bowler," I laughed, pretending I couldn't see the steam coming off her Max Factor. "Ambidextrous too." I could feel the .45 beginning to sag it's way out of my jacket, the leather sholder holster slipping in the heat. Great. The receptionist stared at me as if I'd grown a tusk. "I'll call Mr. Trudy," she announced suddenly. "Rudy? That old stick?" "Mr Trudy is head of Security for the Studio. He has a sense of humor, Mr Powell. I can't afford one on what they pay me," she said. "I'm sure you and he will get along just fine. Maybe he can find a part for you in the next Ritz Brothers picture." She stared at me for effect. I stared back. Then I glanced at the elevator. It was coming down. I had a watch, courtesy of the Army. It had even worked once. I glanced at it and gasped. "Jesus, look at the time!" I shouted, drawing a stare from a monkey-faced page who'd been slumped in the corner reading ScreenPlay. "Well, tell Dick I was here," I laughed and whirled, the momentum grinding the butt of the .45 into my armpit like a bouncer's helping hand. "Got to run, lunch at the Formosa with Mickey." "Mouse?" she grinned, her hand slipping below the desk. Uh-oh, the goon button. "Rooney," I said straightfaced. "He owes me for dance lessons." I scrammed back to where the cab was, the Los Angeles sun smothering me the second I stepped out of the stucco cool like hot shirt from a Canton laundry. "You really saw me in that picture, mister?" the cabbie drawled, his head hanging out the window on a swivel watching a stream of actresses dressed as pirate girls sashay by giggling. "What picture?" I said, and began walking past the hood of the old Plymouth toward a figure in a trenchcoat standing at the gaping entrance to a nearby soundstage. "Bogie! Fancy meeting you here," I said, taking his outstretched hand. His face was too thin, with bags under his eyes but he seemed glad to see me. "Well, long time no see," Bogart growled. I'd done some work for him in '43, retrieving a few less than printable photos of him and a certain Brazilian actress before they hit the scandal sheets. "Gonna read for this part?" I looked up. There was a crudely drawn sign that said "Auditions: All Through The Night" taped to a side door behind him. "Nah, just waiting on a lady to come out of Goldman's little playhouse." "Fine," he smiled. "I already read for it, you'd be terrible." He threw back his head and laughed hard, exposing crooked little teeth. "Seen Betty anywhere, she was supposed to meet me for breakfast," he said when he stopped laughing at the thought of me in the movies. "Not a hair, Bogie," I replied. "That your girl?" he pointed. I turned and saw Hinton slip into my taxi and watched it pull away from the curb. "Christ," I muttered and stood frozen for a second then began to run after the smoking tailpipe. The cab pulled through the studio gate and turned right, disappearing. A set of car keys flew past my shoulder and landed in the neatly trimmed grass in front of a palm. "Here, let's take my car," Bogart said grinning. "You can drop me off at Ciro's. She's quite a dish, you'd better not let her get away." I nodded and began walking back to the parking lot outside the soundstage. A troop of midgets in medieval costume ran past me followed by a very large angry man with a curled up boiled shirtfront. "Heya Ollie," I waved as Bogart waved me into the driver's seat of his old Morgan sportster. "Well, where to, sport?" he asked, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Where would Tony DeLauro hang out in this town, Bogie?" I turned the key and gunned the motor sharply, idling. Bogart flipped a Camel into his mouth with practice and smiled at me. "I have no goddamn idea," he said. "Let's hit the Derby on Sunset and have a drink. Maybe inspiration will strike." I had a better idea and began easing the car out the studio grounds between a line of carpenter's trucks. "Where we goin?" "To see Phil Marlowe," I replied and floored it toward the Hollywood Hills. "He shot DeLauro's brother. If anyone has reason to know where Tony is, Phil does." Secretly though, I thought I might catch the taxi if traffic was light. It was. "Besides," I shouted, the wind blowing our hair back as we raced down Pico, lights flying by like comets, "this dame's stage struck. She'll probably be hanging out at Schwab's if Goldman turned her down." Bogart nodded. "Makes sense," he yelled. "Shit!" "What?" Bogart laughed, his cigarette leaping out into the slipstream, landing on a parked Lincoln. "That's her," I said passing 'my' cab doing 50 as it turned into the Warner Brothers lot. "Oh brother," Bogie groaned, "back here again? I just got off these bastard's contract list." I screeched the tires slamming to a halt behind the cab. Bogart and I stared at each other. It was empty, parked directly in front of the set for "Follies Bergiere". "Hey buddy!" the cabbie screeched, "A'm damn sorry but the lady paid me a hunnernt! She went in there though." Pointing an oily finger into the darkened stage door. Great. I shot him a dirty look. "Custer would have waited," I said. Bogart grabbed my arm and began dragging me into the darkness. I tripped once over a braided bunch of cables and glared at the cabbie as we disappeared into the murk. "This should be funnnnn..." Bogie snickered, and I saw a blue dress flash quickly between a row of light stands. "So is an appendectomy," I said sadly, "as long as you're not the one on the table." Behind me, the door to the stage began to close, claxsons blaring for quiet.