Bernardino Freeway, headed west, then zipped onto the 5. It was nine-thirty on a Sunday night, so there weren’t more than a million cars doing the highway bump and grind. At rush hour, it’d be more like a lap dance. Nearly devoid of actual movement, but heavy on perspiration.
Laney lives in a block-shaped apartment building in Sun Valley. It’s not a great section of town, but her landlord will periodically refuse to accept her rent. He’s about ninety years old, and it’s probably the sight of her that keeps him breathing.
“How’d the soap audition go?” I asked, and settled cautiously into a cane-back chair. She had decorated her apartment with lovingly selected primitive pieces, which meant the furniture might collapse beneath one’s weight at any given moment, especially after one has eaten her weight in high-caloric treats.
She waggled her head in a so-so motion as she poured two fluted glasses full of something that looked like pulverized seaweed. Elaine doesn’t drink alcoholic beverages . . . or eat, a nasty habit that goes back to our teens but has become exacerbated since our move to Movie Star Land.
“I haven’t gotten a callback. Kale and aloe,” she said, and handed me a glass. I had tasted her concoctions before—all reputed to be wondrously beneficial . . . by civilizations that thought bloodletting was medicinal gold. “But there’s another part I’m going to try for. I’d play opposite Brady Corbet.”
“That’s great.” I didn’t know who Brady Corbet was. But I’d be thrilled to see her opposite Pippit the three-legged wonder dog if that would make her forget about Solberg. “Do you need help running lines?”
“Sure.” She disappeared for a moment, then emerged from her bedroom with a few sheaves of paper.
I eyed the truncated pile. “Short movie?” I asked.
She gave me a copy. “Just a side,” she said. “They didn’t give me the whole script.”
“Ahhh.” I actually understood the lingo. It’s virtually impossible to live in L.A. without a little entertainment retardation rubbing off on you. “What’s the title?”
“Bronx Moonlight,” she said, skimming the first page.
Wow. “So who am I?”
“You’re a crook.”
I thought about my actions over the past couple days. Mail theft, false identities . . . Seemed about right. “Okay.”
“Your name’s Hawke.”
“Great. Who are you?”
“I’m Sugar, your accomplice. It takes place during the Depression.”
“All right, Sweet Cakes,” I said, employing my best lisp. I’m not sure who I was trying to imitate. Cagney maybe, or a cockatiel with hearing loss.
“It would be best if you didn’t make me want to slap you,” Laney said.
“I’ll make a note,” I said, and read silently through my part. Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure the script would make Gigli look like a box office smash.
“So I was just apprehended,” she said, glancing at her papers. “By the coppers.”
“The coppers,” I repeated, using my Cagney voice again. “I like the sound of that. If this shrink gig don’t work out, maybe I’ll try acting.”
“Please don’t,” she said with feeling, then, “Anyway, I’ve been caught and they’ve knocked me around a little.”
“Bastards! Can’t trust no stinkin’ coppers.”
She gave me a flat stare. I thought my dialect was getting better. “Now they’ve caught you.”
“They’ll never take me alive.”
“They already did. So here we go: ‘Hawke,’ ” she said, her voice faint, as if she were short of oxygen and maybe a couple of brain cells. “No. Not you, too. Why did you come? You shouldn’t have come.”
I found my part with my finger on the line. “I couldn’t hardly stay away, could I, Sugar?”
“You can do anything you want, Hawke,” she murmured. “Always could.”
I chuckled where it said to do so. Whoa. Sounded bad, but the show must go on. “Just so happens I wanted to see yer mug,” I intoned. “How you
Laney lives in a block-shaped apartment building in Sun Valley. It’s not a great section of town, but her landlord will periodically refuse to accept her rent. He’s about ninety years old, and it’s probably the sight of her that keeps him breathing.
“How’d the soap audition go?” I asked, and settled cautiously into a cane-back chair. She had decorated her apartment with lovingly selected primitive pieces, which meant the furniture might collapse beneath one’s weight at any given moment, especially after one has eaten her weight in high-caloric treats.
She waggled her head in a so-so motion as she poured two fluted glasses full of something that looked like pulverized seaweed. Elaine doesn’t drink alcoholic beverages . . . or eat, a nasty habit that goes back to our teens but has become exacerbated since our move to Movie Star Land.
“I haven’t gotten a callback. Kale and aloe,” she said, and handed me a glass. I had tasted her concoctions before—all reputed to be wondrously beneficial . . . by civilizations that thought bloodletting was medicinal gold. “But there’s another part I’m going to try for. I’d play opposite Brady Corbet.”
“That’s great.” I didn’t know who Brady Corbet was. But I’d be thrilled to see her opposite Pippit the three-legged wonder dog if that would make her forget about Solberg. “Do you need help running lines?”
“Sure.” She disappeared for a moment, then emerged from her bedroom with a few sheaves of paper.
I eyed the truncated pile. “Short movie?” I asked.
She gave me a copy. “Just a side,” she said. “They didn’t give me the whole script.”
“Ahhh.” I actually understood the lingo. It’s virtually impossible to live in L.A. without a little entertainment retardation rubbing off on you. “What’s the title?”
“Bronx Moonlight,” she said, skimming the first page.
Wow. “So who am I?”
“You’re a crook.”
I thought about my actions over the past couple days. Mail theft, false identities . . . Seemed about right. “Okay.”
“Your name’s Hawke.”
“Great. Who are you?”
“I’m Sugar, your accomplice. It takes place during the Depression.”
“All right, Sweet Cakes,” I said, employing my best lisp. I’m not sure who I was trying to imitate. Cagney maybe, or a cockatiel with hearing loss.
“It would be best if you didn’t make me want to slap you,” Laney said.
“I’ll make a note,” I said, and read silently through my part. Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure the script would make Gigli look like a box office smash.
“So I was just apprehended,” she said, glancing at her papers. “By the coppers.”
“The coppers,” I repeated, using my Cagney voice again. “I like the sound of that. If this shrink gig don’t work out, maybe I’ll try acting.”
“Please don’t,” she said with feeling, then, “Anyway, I’ve been caught and they’ve knocked me around a little.”
“Bastards! Can’t trust no stinkin’ coppers.”
She gave me a flat stare. I thought my dialect was getting better. “Now they’ve caught you.”
“They’ll never take me alive.”
“They already did. So here we go: ‘Hawke,’ ” she said, her voice faint, as if she were short of oxygen and maybe a couple of brain cells. “No. Not you, too. Why did you come? You shouldn’t have come.”
I found my part with my finger on the line. “I couldn’t hardly stay away, could I, Sugar?”
“You can do anything you want, Hawke,” she murmured. “Always could.”
I chuckled where it said to do so. Whoa. Sounded bad, but the show must go on. “Just so happens I wanted to see yer mug,” I intoned. “How you
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