walking into her office on the lot the day he signed for his first important movie. Fifteen years ago to be exact.
* * *
Mannon Cable was twenty-seven years old and the best-looking hunk ever to cross Nora Carvell’s path when he walked into her office. Not that she was interested. She preferred girls, always would. Only Mannon didn’t know that, so when he first set eyes on the middle-aged woman with the cropped hair and the permanent cigarette dangling from her lips, he went into his number. Sexy walk. Macho scowl. Cobalt blue eyes scorching everything in sight.
‘Take a seat,’ Nora snapped. ‘And tell me your life history. Then we’ll make something up.’ She shuffled some papers around on her desk. ‘Have you been over to the stills department yet?’
‘Nope.’ He shook his head.
She squinted at his sun-kissed good looks, trying to decide how to sell this new piece of beefcake. ‘Go ahead. Shoot.’
He told her about being born in Montana, coming to Los Angeles at nineteen. Studying at various acting classes, working as a waiter, an extra, a gas pump attendant, a repossessor of cars, and a stunt man.
‘Married?’ she asked.
‘Nope,’ he replied.
‘Homosexual?’ she persisted.
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Are you kidding?’
Pencil poised, she checked him out for signs of lying. ‘I’m not gonna make it public knowledge, sonny. I just have to know these things so I can protect you.’
‘I am not a queer,’ he said stiffly.
She scribbled on a piece of paper and said, ‘Come back tomorrow. I’ll have you all figured out.’
He returned the next day to be handed a typed sheet of imaginative accomplishments. He was a football hero, an English honours major who had been injured in a football game and told that he would never walk again. For two years he had lain in a hospital bed unable to move until – miracle of miracles – blind faith pulled him through and he came to Hollywood and was discovered for this very movie he was about to make.
‘This is all lies,’ he protested.
She shrugged. ‘So I bent the truth a little. Big deal.’
‘I don’t like it.’
Inhaling cigarette smoke she said, ‘You don’t havta like it, sonny, just remember it.’
He shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘It’s studio policy. Bio info’s gotta grab ’em. Whaddya think’s gonna grab ’em about your background?’ A cloud of smoke enveloped her and she began to cough. ‘Are you sure you’re not a fag? Y’live with two other guys. What’s the deal?’
‘Get fucked,’ he steamed, and walked out.
After that they became good friends. It was Nora’s idea that he do the Burt Reynolds spoof centrefold. He did it with a big, shit-eating grin and a large picture of a strutting cock (the barnyard variety) covering his strutting cock (the Mannon Cable variety). It caused quite a stir, and everyone knew who Mannon Cable was after that.
When Nora left the studio a few years later she came to work for him as his personal publicist. Eventually she went off to live in Italy with her companion of many years, and when her lover died she came back to America and took a job at City Television. Her first assignment was Silver Anderson. She had worked with her ever since.
* * *
Mannon finished a series of gruelling press-ups, and threw a towelling robe over his shorts. When he was married to Whitney, parties were a rare event. Whitney was content to stay at home on the ranch, just the two of them. She liked to ride their horses, walk on the beach, and join him in fixing a barbecue. Until she started her dumb career and fucked everything up. Now the Malibu ranch was sold, the horses too. Home was a formal mansion on Sunset Boulevard, and he wasn’t happy.
Melanie-Shanna waited in the games room, which featured a pool table, full western bar, and his collection of guns on the walls.
When Mannon had showered and dressed he joined her.
‘Hi, honey,’ she greeted him quietly. ‘Feeling good?’
‘Yeah,
* * *
Mannon Cable was twenty-seven years old and the best-looking hunk ever to cross Nora Carvell’s path when he walked into her office. Not that she was interested. She preferred girls, always would. Only Mannon didn’t know that, so when he first set eyes on the middle-aged woman with the cropped hair and the permanent cigarette dangling from her lips, he went into his number. Sexy walk. Macho scowl. Cobalt blue eyes scorching everything in sight.
‘Take a seat,’ Nora snapped. ‘And tell me your life history. Then we’ll make something up.’ She shuffled some papers around on her desk. ‘Have you been over to the stills department yet?’
‘Nope.’ He shook his head.
She squinted at his sun-kissed good looks, trying to decide how to sell this new piece of beefcake. ‘Go ahead. Shoot.’
He told her about being born in Montana, coming to Los Angeles at nineteen. Studying at various acting classes, working as a waiter, an extra, a gas pump attendant, a repossessor of cars, and a stunt man.
‘Married?’ she asked.
‘Nope,’ he replied.
‘Homosexual?’ she persisted.
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Are you kidding?’
Pencil poised, she checked him out for signs of lying. ‘I’m not gonna make it public knowledge, sonny. I just have to know these things so I can protect you.’
‘I am not a queer,’ he said stiffly.
She scribbled on a piece of paper and said, ‘Come back tomorrow. I’ll have you all figured out.’
He returned the next day to be handed a typed sheet of imaginative accomplishments. He was a football hero, an English honours major who had been injured in a football game and told that he would never walk again. For two years he had lain in a hospital bed unable to move until – miracle of miracles – blind faith pulled him through and he came to Hollywood and was discovered for this very movie he was about to make.
‘This is all lies,’ he protested.
She shrugged. ‘So I bent the truth a little. Big deal.’
‘I don’t like it.’
Inhaling cigarette smoke she said, ‘You don’t havta like it, sonny, just remember it.’
He shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘It’s studio policy. Bio info’s gotta grab ’em. Whaddya think’s gonna grab ’em about your background?’ A cloud of smoke enveloped her and she began to cough. ‘Are you sure you’re not a fag? Y’live with two other guys. What’s the deal?’
‘Get fucked,’ he steamed, and walked out.
After that they became good friends. It was Nora’s idea that he do the Burt Reynolds spoof centrefold. He did it with a big, shit-eating grin and a large picture of a strutting cock (the barnyard variety) covering his strutting cock (the Mannon Cable variety). It caused quite a stir, and everyone knew who Mannon Cable was after that.
When Nora left the studio a few years later she came to work for him as his personal publicist. Eventually she went off to live in Italy with her companion of many years, and when her lover died she came back to America and took a job at City Television. Her first assignment was Silver Anderson. She had worked with her ever since.
* * *
Mannon finished a series of gruelling press-ups, and threw a towelling robe over his shorts. When he was married to Whitney, parties were a rare event. Whitney was content to stay at home on the ranch, just the two of them. She liked to ride their horses, walk on the beach, and join him in fixing a barbecue. Until she started her dumb career and fucked everything up. Now the Malibu ranch was sold, the horses too. Home was a formal mansion on Sunset Boulevard, and he wasn’t happy.
Melanie-Shanna waited in the games room, which featured a pool table, full western bar, and his collection of guns on the walls.
When Mannon had showered and dressed he joined her.
‘Hi, honey,’ she greeted him quietly. ‘Feeling good?’
‘Yeah,
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