Hollywood Boulevard by Janyce Stefan-Cole Page A

possible had seemed to go wrong.
    Â Â Â Â "Give me a minute," Andre said to me, and he and Quinn went off to talk to the electrical crew.
    Â Â Â Â "There's coffee and stuff; unfortunately it's outside today . . . the small space in here," Carola said, her hand sweeping the air.
    Â Â Â Â I was in the way. I thanked Carola and slipped into the background, the part of the bar that would not be seen on camera, stepped over electrical cables as thick as my arms, black drapes over anything that might cast unintended light, a makeup table to one side, the extras in a clutch doing what extras mostly did: wait around. One of them caught my eye, and I quickly turned to go.
    Â Â Â Â "Okay to open the door?" I asked the PA guarding it. He nodded and I hurried outside.
    Â Â Â Â I drove back to the Muse, speeding on the freeway like a pro who'd never left L.A. I parked and went up to the freshly made- up room, fell on the bed and cried into my pillow. Harry had been a force, a man who'd cried when I quit, who'd stood by me— in his way— when I suffered, and who most of all had always believed in me. Harry Machin: half actor, half god; part fake, part sage. He was a limb lopped off an ancient tree. My tears fell into an anonymous hotel pillow. How many others' tears of woe, of joy or ecstasy, and how much loneliness had this pillow already absorbed? Harry Machin booked actors, fed the movie machine with their flesh and blood and demanded high prices in return and ten percent for himself. He used us and we used him and we all went like little piggies off to the bank. I was crying my eyes out into a hotel pillow for one of Hollywood's biggest deal- makers. There was something ironic in that, but for the moment it was lost on me.

    I  have always bounced back after darkness, found my way to the light, but this time, this darkness that has descended since Harry died on me like that, on top of my being back here in Hollywood, has knocked the light right out of me. Should I go outside later to see if the old man is there, reassuringly blessing the end of the day? I could introduce myself, fall at his feet seeking wisdom. Maybe Kitty will show up and rub along gates and trees and corners, inviting me to rub his thick coat in unconditional, sensuous love. No, I could not greet man or beast today. Is it the interrupted sleep since Harry? Was it the suddenness of his going and the bleakness of seeing myself now as a hopeless misfit, a piece in the wrong jigsaw puzzle? His death seemed to cut me off once and for all from all that I once was.
    Â Â Â Â Naturally, there was press coverage. Harry was a big deal. Heart attack, the papers and blogs said; a former client was with him, Ardennes Thrush, once nominated for an Oscar for her part in Mark Wir lach's haunting film, Darkness During Daylight. The actress retired , one piece said; rumor has it she was ready to sign up again with Machin, return to the silver screen . That would be a rumor the writer made up. The New York and Los Angeles Times kept the obit simple and respectful, with my name out of it. Only Variety intimated funny doings. Lundy let it be known— to anyone who'd listen— that Harry and I had argued and it had grown violent. "We did not argue," I told the Variety reporter who called me at the hotel. But Lundy's version won out. A freelancer called to ask if it was true I was going back to work, and could she have the scoop. No scoop, I told her; she had it all wrong.
    Â Â Â Â I'd had to drive to the Beverly Hills police precinct for questioning, way over on Rexford. To get there I drove past Doheny, in West Hollywood, where I used to get my hair done (and would need to again soon). I asked the detective interviewing me if I was up on an involuntary manslaughter charge— criminally negligent or otherwise— or perhaps some other evil offense.
    Â Â Â Â "You find the death funny?" Detective Collins