Hollywood by Charles Bukowski Page A

out, they cool it and figure their next move. Less panic. And under all this, they have the ability to kill. But they don’t blow a lot of smoke first.”
    “You tell him this...”
    “All right, when and where?

    It was 8 p.m. in North Hollywood. We were about 5 minutes late. We were walking up various dark paths looking for the apartment.
    “I hope he has something to drink. We should have brought something.”
    “I’m sure he’ll have something,” Sarah said.
    It was hard to make out the numbers. Then there was Jon standing on a balcony.
    “Up here...”
    I went up the stairway and followed Jon. It was one of Jack’s little hideaways.
    Jon pushed the door open and we walked in. They were sitting on an old couch. Jack Bledsoe and his buddy Lenny Fidelo. Fidelo acted bit parts. Jack Bledsoe looked exactly like Jack Bledsoe. Lenny was a big guy, wide, a little too heavy. He was marked by life, he’d been rubbed in it. I liked him. Big sad eyes. Large hands. Looked tired, lonely, O.K.
    Introductions went around.
    “Who’s this guy?” I asked Jack, nodding at Lenny. “Your bodyguard?”
    “Yeah,” said Jack.
    Jon just stood there smiling as if the thing was a meeting of great souls. But, you never knew.
    “Got anything to drink?” I asked.
    “All we’ve got is beer. Beer all right?”
    “All right,” I said.
    Lenny went off into another room for the beer. I was sorry for Sarah, she wasn’t nutty for beer.
    There were boxing posters all over the wall. I walked around looking at them. Great. Some of them went way back. I began to feel macho just looking at them.
    There were springs sticking out of the sofa and there were pillows on the floor, shoes, magazines, paper bags.
    “This is a real male hangout,” Sarah laughed.
    “Yeah, yeah, I like it,” I said. “I’ve lived in some real wrecked places but never anything like this.”
    “We like it,” said Jack.
    Lenny was back with the beer. Cans. We cracked them and sat there having a hit or two.
    “So, you read the script?” I asked Jack.
    “Yeah. Was that guy you?”
    “Me, long ago.”
    “You got your ass kicked,” said Lenny.
    “Mostly.”
    “You really ran errands for sandwiches?” Jack asked.
    “Mostly.”
    The beer was good. There was a silence.
    “Well, what do you think?” Jon asked.
    “You mean Jack?”
    “Yes.”
    “He’ll do. We may have to beat him up a bit.”
    “Lemme see your fighting style,” said Jack.
    I got up and sparred.
    “Quick hands,” said Sarah.
    I sat down again. “I could take a punch fine. But I lacked a certain desire. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. You got another beer?”
    “Oh sure,” said Lenny, then he got up to get one for me.
    It was known in Hollywood that Jack Bledsoe didn’t like Tom Pell. He liked to lay it on Tom in almost all his interviews: “Tom comes from Malibu. I come from the streets.” It didn’t matter to me where an actor came from as long as he could act. Both of them could act. And there was no need for either of them to act the way writers acted.
    Lenny was back with the beer.
    “It’s the last beer,” he said.
    “Oh shit, no,” I said.
    “I’ll be right back,” Jon said.
    Then he was out the door. Beer-run. I liked Jon.
    “You like this Jon Pinchot as a director?” Jack asked.
    “You ever seen his documentary on Lido Mamin?”
    “No.”
    “Pinchot has no fear. He loves fucking with death.”
    “He’s got a hard-on for death, huh?”
    “Seems so. But he’s done other stuff besides the Mamin film. I trust him as a director all the way. He hasn’t been diluted by Hollywood, although some day he might be.”
    “How about you?”
    “How about me, what?”
    “Will Hollywood get your balls?”
    “No way.”
    “Famous last words?”
    “No,, famous first words.”
    “Hank hates movies,” said Sarah. “The last movie he liked was The Lost Weekend and you know how many years ago that was.”
    “Ray Milland’s only bit of acting. But it was aces,” I