that
Esquire
story of yours. It was like Ecclesiastes.
Job, I muttered.
Shut up. What we need is
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and me!
Manny Leiber snorted. Since when do beginning writers reject the greatest job of the century? We need it yesterday, so Fritz can start shooting again. Write good and someday youll own all
this
!
He waved.
I looked out over the graveyard. It was a bright day, but invisible rain washed the tombstones.
God, I whispered. I hope not.
That did it. Manny Leiber paled. He was back on Stage 13, in the dark, with me, Roy, and the clay Beast.
Silently, he ran to the restroom. The door slammed.
Fritz and I traded glances. Manny was sick behind the door.
Gott
, exhaled Fritz. I should have listened to Goering!
Manny Leiber staggered back out a moment later, looked around as if surprised the place was still afloat, made it to the telephone, dialed, said, Get in here! and headed out.
I stopped him at the door.
About Stage 13
Manny had his hand over his mouth as if he might be sick again. His eyes widened.
I know youre going to clean it out, I said, quickly. But I got a lot of stuff on that stage. And I want to spend the rest of the day talking with Fritz here about Galilee and Herod. Could you leave all the junk so I can come tomorrow morning and claim my stuff?
Then
you can clean out.
Mannys eyes swiveled, thinking. Then, hand over his mouth, he jerked his head once, yes, and turned to find a tall thin pale man coming in. They whispered, then with no goodbyes, Manny left. The tall pale man was I. W. W. Hope, one of the production estimators.
He looked at me, paused, and then with some embarrassment said, It seems, ah, we have no ending for your film.
Have vou tried the
Bible
? Fritz and I said.
22
The menagerie was gone, the curb was empty in front of the studio. Charlotte, Ma, and the rest had gone on to other studios, other restaurants. There must have been three dozen of them scattered across Hollywood. One would surely know Clarences last name.
Fritz drove me home.
Along the way he said, Reach in the glove compartment. That glass case. Open.
I opened the small black case. There were six bright crystal monocles in six neat red velvet cups nested there.
My luggage, said Fritz. All that I saved and took to bring to America when I got the hell out with my ravenous groin and my talent.
Which was huge.
Stop. Fritz dutch-rubbed my skull. Give only insults, bastard child. I show you these he nudged the monoclesto prove all is not lost. All cats, and Roy, land on their feet. What else is in the glove compartment?
I found a thick mimeographed script.
Read that without throwing up and youll be a man, my son. Kipling. Go. Come back, tomorrow, two-thirty, the commissary. We talk. Then, later, we show you the rough cut
of Jesus on the Dole
or
Father, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me
.
Ja
?
I got out of his car in front of my house.
Sieg Heil
, I said.
Thats more
like
it! Fritz drove away, leaving me to a house so empty and quiet I thought: Crumley.
Soon after sunset, I rode out to Venice on my bike.
23
I hate bikes at night, but I wanted to be sure no one followed.
Besides, I wanted time to think just what I would say to my detective friend. Something like: Help! Save Roy! Get him re-hired. Solve the riddle of the Beast.
That made me almost turn back.
I could hear Crumley now, heaving great sighs as I spun my impossible tale, throwing up his hands, slugging back the beer to drown his contempt for my lack of real hammered-out Swedish-steel-spiked facts.
I parked my bike out in front of his small thornbush-hidden safari bungalow a mile from the ocean and walked up through a grove of African lilacs, along a path dusted, you felt, by okapi beasts just yesterday.
As I raised my hand to knock, the door blew open.
A fist came out of the darkness with a foaming beer can in it. I
Esquire
story of yours. It was like Ecclesiastes.
Job, I muttered.
Shut up. What we need is
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and me!
Manny Leiber snorted. Since when do beginning writers reject the greatest job of the century? We need it yesterday, so Fritz can start shooting again. Write good and someday youll own all
this
!
He waved.
I looked out over the graveyard. It was a bright day, but invisible rain washed the tombstones.
God, I whispered. I hope not.
That did it. Manny Leiber paled. He was back on Stage 13, in the dark, with me, Roy, and the clay Beast.
Silently, he ran to the restroom. The door slammed.
Fritz and I traded glances. Manny was sick behind the door.
Gott
, exhaled Fritz. I should have listened to Goering!
Manny Leiber staggered back out a moment later, looked around as if surprised the place was still afloat, made it to the telephone, dialed, said, Get in here! and headed out.
I stopped him at the door.
About Stage 13
Manny had his hand over his mouth as if he might be sick again. His eyes widened.
I know youre going to clean it out, I said, quickly. But I got a lot of stuff on that stage. And I want to spend the rest of the day talking with Fritz here about Galilee and Herod. Could you leave all the junk so I can come tomorrow morning and claim my stuff?
Then
you can clean out.
Mannys eyes swiveled, thinking. Then, hand over his mouth, he jerked his head once, yes, and turned to find a tall thin pale man coming in. They whispered, then with no goodbyes, Manny left. The tall pale man was I. W. W. Hope, one of the production estimators.
He looked at me, paused, and then with some embarrassment said, It seems, ah, we have no ending for your film.
Have vou tried the
Bible
? Fritz and I said.
22
The menagerie was gone, the curb was empty in front of the studio. Charlotte, Ma, and the rest had gone on to other studios, other restaurants. There must have been three dozen of them scattered across Hollywood. One would surely know Clarences last name.
Fritz drove me home.
Along the way he said, Reach in the glove compartment. That glass case. Open.
I opened the small black case. There were six bright crystal monocles in six neat red velvet cups nested there.
My luggage, said Fritz. All that I saved and took to bring to America when I got the hell out with my ravenous groin and my talent.
Which was huge.
Stop. Fritz dutch-rubbed my skull. Give only insults, bastard child. I show you these he nudged the monoclesto prove all is not lost. All cats, and Roy, land on their feet. What else is in the glove compartment?
I found a thick mimeographed script.
Read that without throwing up and youll be a man, my son. Kipling. Go. Come back, tomorrow, two-thirty, the commissary. We talk. Then, later, we show you the rough cut
of Jesus on the Dole
or
Father, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me
.
Ja
?
I got out of his car in front of my house.
Sieg Heil
, I said.
Thats more
like
it! Fritz drove away, leaving me to a house so empty and quiet I thought: Crumley.
Soon after sunset, I rode out to Venice on my bike.
23
I hate bikes at night, but I wanted to be sure no one followed.
Besides, I wanted time to think just what I would say to my detective friend. Something like: Help! Save Roy! Get him re-hired. Solve the riddle of the Beast.
That made me almost turn back.
I could hear Crumley now, heaving great sighs as I spun my impossible tale, throwing up his hands, slugging back the beer to drown his contempt for my lack of real hammered-out Swedish-steel-spiked facts.
I parked my bike out in front of his small thornbush-hidden safari bungalow a mile from the ocean and walked up through a grove of African lilacs, along a path dusted, you felt, by okapi beasts just yesterday.
As I raised my hand to knock, the door blew open.
A fist came out of the darkness with a foaming beer can in it. I
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