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Authors: James Hadley Chase
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looked like a pimp alert for business.
He gave Rima a jeering grin.
“Hello, sugar, coming to work your stint?” he said and then he looked at me. “Who’s this?”
“A friend,” Rima said. “Can he be one of the crowd, Larry?”
“Why not? The more the merrier. What’s his name?” “Jeff Gordon,” Rima said.
“Okay. I’ll book him.” To me, he went on, “Get over to Number three studio, pal. Down the alley, second on your right.”
Rima said to me, “You go ahead. I want to talk to Larry.”
Lowenstien winked at me.
“They all want to talk to me.”
I went off down the alley. Half way down, I looked back. Rima was going into the office with Lowenstien. He had his arm around her shoulders and he was leaning close, talking to her.
I stood in the hot sunshine and waited. After a while, Rima came out and joined me.
“I was taking a look at that lock. There’s nothing to it. The lock on the drawer where the money is kept is tricky, but I could open it, given a little time.”
I didn’t say anything.
“We could do it tonight. We could get lost here,” she went on. “I know a place where we can hide. We’d have to stay the night here and get out in the morning. It would be easy.”
I hesitated for perhaps half a second. I knew if I didn’t take this risk I wasn’t going to get anywhere. I realised I would have to go home and admit defeat. Once I got her cured, both of us would be in the money.
Right at that moment, all I could think of was what ten per cent of half a million dollars would mean to me.
“Okay,” I said. “If you’re going to do it, I’ll do it with you.”
II
We lay side by side in the darkness, under the big stage of Studio Three. We had been lying like that for the past three hours, listening to the tramp of feet overhead, the shouting of the technicians as they prepared the new set for tomorrow’s shooting, the professional cursing of the director as they didn’t do what he told them to do and did what he told them not to do.
All the morning and the afternoon, we had worked in the heat of the arc lights until dusk with three hundred other extras: that regiment of the lost who hang on to Hollywood in the hope, some day, someone will notice them and turn them into stars, and we had sweated with them and hated them.
We had been part of a crowd supposed to be watching a Championship fight. We had stood and yelled when the director had signalled to us. We had sat and booed. We had leaned forward with horror on our faces. We had jeered, and finally we had lifted the roof when the pale, thin looking kid in the ring who didn’t look as if he could punch his way out of a paper bag, had brought the champion down on his knees and forced him to quit.
We had done all that over and over again from eleven o’clock until seven o’clock in the evening, and it was the hardest day’s work I have ever done in my life.
Finally, the director had broken it up.
“Okay, boys and girls,” he had bawled over the loudspeaker system. “I want you all here tomorrow at nine sharp. Wear what you are wearing now.”
Rima put her hand on my arm.
“Keep close to me and move fast when I tell you.”
We tagged along just behind the long line of sweating extras. My heart was thumping, but I wouldn’t let myself think what was ahead of me.
Rima said, “Through here,” and gave me a little push.
We slipped down an alley that brought us to the back entrance of Studio Three.
It was easy to get under the stage. For the first three hours we remained like mice, scared that someone might find us, but after a while, around ten o’clock, the technicians knocked off and we had the place to ourselves.
By then I was aching for a cigarette and so was Rima. We lit up. In the feeble light of the match’s flame, I saw her stretched out beside me in the dust, her eyes glittering, and she wrinkled her nose at me.
“It’s going to be all right. In another half hour, we can do it.” It
He gave Rima a jeering grin.
“Hello, sugar, coming to work your stint?” he said and then he looked at me. “Who’s this?”
“A friend,” Rima said. “Can he be one of the crowd, Larry?”
“Why not? The more the merrier. What’s his name?” “Jeff Gordon,” Rima said.
“Okay. I’ll book him.” To me, he went on, “Get over to Number three studio, pal. Down the alley, second on your right.”
Rima said to me, “You go ahead. I want to talk to Larry.”
Lowenstien winked at me.
“They all want to talk to me.”
I went off down the alley. Half way down, I looked back. Rima was going into the office with Lowenstien. He had his arm around her shoulders and he was leaning close, talking to her.
I stood in the hot sunshine and waited. After a while, Rima came out and joined me.
“I was taking a look at that lock. There’s nothing to it. The lock on the drawer where the money is kept is tricky, but I could open it, given a little time.”
I didn’t say anything.
“We could do it tonight. We could get lost here,” she went on. “I know a place where we can hide. We’d have to stay the night here and get out in the morning. It would be easy.”
I hesitated for perhaps half a second. I knew if I didn’t take this risk I wasn’t going to get anywhere. I realised I would have to go home and admit defeat. Once I got her cured, both of us would be in the money.
Right at that moment, all I could think of was what ten per cent of half a million dollars would mean to me.
“Okay,” I said. “If you’re going to do it, I’ll do it with you.”
II
We lay side by side in the darkness, under the big stage of Studio Three. We had been lying like that for the past three hours, listening to the tramp of feet overhead, the shouting of the technicians as they prepared the new set for tomorrow’s shooting, the professional cursing of the director as they didn’t do what he told them to do and did what he told them not to do.
All the morning and the afternoon, we had worked in the heat of the arc lights until dusk with three hundred other extras: that regiment of the lost who hang on to Hollywood in the hope, some day, someone will notice them and turn them into stars, and we had sweated with them and hated them.
We had been part of a crowd supposed to be watching a Championship fight. We had stood and yelled when the director had signalled to us. We had sat and booed. We had leaned forward with horror on our faces. We had jeered, and finally we had lifted the roof when the pale, thin looking kid in the ring who didn’t look as if he could punch his way out of a paper bag, had brought the champion down on his knees and forced him to quit.
We had done all that over and over again from eleven o’clock until seven o’clock in the evening, and it was the hardest day’s work I have ever done in my life.
Finally, the director had broken it up.
“Okay, boys and girls,” he had bawled over the loudspeaker system. “I want you all here tomorrow at nine sharp. Wear what you are wearing now.”
Rima put her hand on my arm.
“Keep close to me and move fast when I tell you.”
We tagged along just behind the long line of sweating extras. My heart was thumping, but I wouldn’t let myself think what was ahead of me.
Rima said, “Through here,” and gave me a little push.
We slipped down an alley that brought us to the back entrance of Studio Three.
It was easy to get under the stage. For the first three hours we remained like mice, scared that someone might find us, but after a while, around ten o’clock, the technicians knocked off and we had the place to ourselves.
By then I was aching for a cigarette and so was Rima. We lit up. In the feeble light of the match’s flame, I saw her stretched out beside me in the dust, her eyes glittering, and she wrinkled her nose at me.
“It’s going to be all right. In another half hour, we can do it.” It
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