it dead by now?”
“It’s a fake orchid. The thing’s plastic. He sprays air stuff around the office but it doesn’t matter. You can always smellthe stink. The Orchid and the piss smell are Ronny’s claim to fame in this town. His trademarks.”
I nodded. “He’s a pretty intense guy,” I said.
“His receptionists get the pleasure of emptying the planter every couple of days. That’s why he never keeps one for very long.”
“C’mon. Straight dope?”
Chico was grinning. “Straight dope, my man. Hey, anyway, gotta go. Nice ride.”
“Okay, see you.”
I looked over at the group standing by the director’s chairs. There was young Ronny. He’d found the culprit, an assistant director kid named Matt. Thirty feet away from my limo with two dozen crew members watching, Stedman was yelling and lambasting the guy for his stupidity and unprofessional conduct.
Matt was sorry, he’d been in a hurry delivering extra copies of the last-minute scene notes for the actors. But sorry ain’t shit. Sorry just didn’t cut it. Ronny Stedman was boss and he took this five-minute opportunity to make sure everyone present could completely comprehended how a true Hollywood jerkoff actually conducts himself.
fourteen
T hat night I got back to Dav-Ko after one a.m., exhausted and a little buzzed, and as I was rolling over the drive and pulling into the raised carport, I misjudged the distance and bumped the rear of our brown stretch with the tip of Pearl’s right fender.
Hearing the thud I got out to take a look. I’d dislodged a piece of front chrome molding. Surely a five-hundred-dollar repair at the Lincoln dealer’s body shop and the loss of a day’s rental for the car, another twelve hundred bucks.
I was pissed. When I got inside Joshua was just leaving for the night, shutting the office down and forwarding our phones to the answering service.
After he’d gone I remembered what Jackie, our New York mechanic, used to do when a chrome strip or a piece of molding came loose on one of the older Caddys. I located a tube of Krazy Glue in our tool cabinet and went back outside to see if I could reattach the molding.
The glue worked. Five minutes later Pearl’s fender stripwas in place and as good as new except for a tiny, almost unnoticeable ding.
Back in the office I entered my “Time-In” in the computer after tossing the glue on the desk. I could hear an Etta James CD playing in Portia’s chauffeur’s room/bedroom. I knew that I’d better go in and say hello.
“Bruno!” she called from across the room. “Hi, darling.”
She wasn’t alone. She was close-dancing with a partner, a young guy. Portia pulled her head from his shoulder to introduce us. “This is Sidney,” she whispered. “He’s my friend. A personal trainer and massage therapist.”
The kid was tanned and overmuscled and looked as if he’d stepped out of a gay men’s magazine.
Both of them were giggling and nicely gassed on drinks and whatever else they’d been drugging that night. Portia was wearing her favorite oversized man’s dress shirt and her thonged panties. Sidney, a tight tee and sweat pants. L.A. fitness casual.
I knew that the kid being here with her was payback, Portia’s way of showing me what a jerk I was for pulling back and avoiding contact with her.
She asked me if I wanted a Cuba libre. I said yes because I needed a pick-me-up after the annoyance of Pearl’s fender ding.
Crossing the room I sat down on one of the puffy velour chairs Portia had brought in weeks ago to dress the place up.
The shit was starting. “Sidney and I first met in a yoga class at my gym. He’s from Chicago,” she purred. “My young friend has a spectacular body, don’t you think?”
“Sidney looks like he lifts weights day and night,” I said. “He’s an impressive physical specimen.”
Portia was leering. “Sidney darling, slip your shirt off,beautiful boy. Bruno ought to see what’s possible when a fellow devotes
“It’s a fake orchid. The thing’s plastic. He sprays air stuff around the office but it doesn’t matter. You can always smellthe stink. The Orchid and the piss smell are Ronny’s claim to fame in this town. His trademarks.”
I nodded. “He’s a pretty intense guy,” I said.
“His receptionists get the pleasure of emptying the planter every couple of days. That’s why he never keeps one for very long.”
“C’mon. Straight dope?”
Chico was grinning. “Straight dope, my man. Hey, anyway, gotta go. Nice ride.”
“Okay, see you.”
I looked over at the group standing by the director’s chairs. There was young Ronny. He’d found the culprit, an assistant director kid named Matt. Thirty feet away from my limo with two dozen crew members watching, Stedman was yelling and lambasting the guy for his stupidity and unprofessional conduct.
Matt was sorry, he’d been in a hurry delivering extra copies of the last-minute scene notes for the actors. But sorry ain’t shit. Sorry just didn’t cut it. Ronny Stedman was boss and he took this five-minute opportunity to make sure everyone present could completely comprehended how a true Hollywood jerkoff actually conducts himself.
fourteen
T hat night I got back to Dav-Ko after one a.m., exhausted and a little buzzed, and as I was rolling over the drive and pulling into the raised carport, I misjudged the distance and bumped the rear of our brown stretch with the tip of Pearl’s right fender.
Hearing the thud I got out to take a look. I’d dislodged a piece of front chrome molding. Surely a five-hundred-dollar repair at the Lincoln dealer’s body shop and the loss of a day’s rental for the car, another twelve hundred bucks.
I was pissed. When I got inside Joshua was just leaving for the night, shutting the office down and forwarding our phones to the answering service.
After he’d gone I remembered what Jackie, our New York mechanic, used to do when a chrome strip or a piece of molding came loose on one of the older Caddys. I located a tube of Krazy Glue in our tool cabinet and went back outside to see if I could reattach the molding.
The glue worked. Five minutes later Pearl’s fender stripwas in place and as good as new except for a tiny, almost unnoticeable ding.
Back in the office I entered my “Time-In” in the computer after tossing the glue on the desk. I could hear an Etta James CD playing in Portia’s chauffeur’s room/bedroom. I knew that I’d better go in and say hello.
“Bruno!” she called from across the room. “Hi, darling.”
She wasn’t alone. She was close-dancing with a partner, a young guy. Portia pulled her head from his shoulder to introduce us. “This is Sidney,” she whispered. “He’s my friend. A personal trainer and massage therapist.”
The kid was tanned and overmuscled and looked as if he’d stepped out of a gay men’s magazine.
Both of them were giggling and nicely gassed on drinks and whatever else they’d been drugging that night. Portia was wearing her favorite oversized man’s dress shirt and her thonged panties. Sidney, a tight tee and sweat pants. L.A. fitness casual.
I knew that the kid being here with her was payback, Portia’s way of showing me what a jerk I was for pulling back and avoiding contact with her.
She asked me if I wanted a Cuba libre. I said yes because I needed a pick-me-up after the annoyance of Pearl’s fender ding.
Crossing the room I sat down on one of the puffy velour chairs Portia had brought in weeks ago to dress the place up.
The shit was starting. “Sidney and I first met in a yoga class at my gym. He’s from Chicago,” she purred. “My young friend has a spectacular body, don’t you think?”
“Sidney looks like he lifts weights day and night,” I said. “He’s an impressive physical specimen.”
Portia was leering. “Sidney darling, slip your shirt off,beautiful boy. Bruno ought to see what’s possible when a fellow devotes
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