L.A. Noire: The Collected Stories by Jonathan Santlofer Page A
Authors: Jonathan Santlofer
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—& when I came inside I stumbled in the darkness & groped for the light switch & I could see someone in Betty’s bed sprawled & helpless-seeming—limp & not-breathing—& when I managed to switch on the light I saw that it was just bedclothes twisted in Betty’s messy bed, coiled together like a human body.
“Oh Betty! Gosh I thought it was you .”
School for Murder
Francine Prose
All summer I kept hearing people say desperate . Actors are always eavesdropping on strangers, picking up phrases, gestures, stuff we can use. And wherever I went, whenever I listened in, I heard: desperate, desperate, desperate!
At the pharmacy, I heard a dame say, “Hon, if my landlord evicts me, things are gonna get desperate.” A buddy of mine said, “If my girl in New York doesn’t call pretty soon, man… I’m desperate.” I overheard a bum on Skid Row say, “That jerk better pay me back, I don’t care how desperate he is.”
The funny thing was, this was 1947. Desperation was yesterday’s mashed potatoes. Happy days were here again. The Depression was over, the war was over, we’d dropped the bomb, we’d won. Guys like me had defended our country, and girls appreciated that. I’d been in the battle of Okinawa. That was pretty much all I had to say and gals would feel like it was their personal mission to heal whatever was broken.
In L.A., the studios were popping out pictures like bunnies having babies. L.A. was the place to be! As soon as I got discharged, I spent a week with my mom in Seattle, then stuck out my thumb and headed south. Hollywood, here I come!
For a while, it seemed I was getting paid back for risking my life and seeing things I shouldn’t have seen. Horrors I kept seeing in those nightmares I’d wake up from, drenched and shaking.
At first, good things were coming my way. No great things, I wouldn’t say great. But I was making a living.
Everyone knew about the stars who’d started out as extras, or with one-sentence walk-ons that made some producer sit up and ask, “Who’s that? Get me his agent on the phone.” Bit parts were a foot in the door. I was glad to get them.
If you’ve seen enough pictures from those years, you’ve probably seen me. I’m the croupier in that scene where Barbara Stanwyck wins all that money. I’m a ranger out searching for the kid right before Lassie finds him. I give Bing Crosby directions in Road to Utopia .
For a while life looked rosy. Then… my luck turned. People lost interest. If I’d had a dollar for every time I heard the line, “My agent stopped returning my calls,” this story wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have needed the money. But it wasn’t about the money. Or maybe a little about the money. Maybe the reason I kept hearing people say desperate was because it described my state of mind—and my bank account.
At Gatsby’s, the actors’ bar where my unemployed friends and I hung out, the clientele was so desperate we never used the word.
Chuck was my agent at the time. The one not returning my calls. The boys at Gatsby’s gave me advice. They said, “Vince, you need to get heavy with the guy.” You could ask why I took the advice of other unemployed actors. But I did. I made a real pest of myself, called my agent twenty times a day. His receptionist hated my guts. But she had to pick up the phone.
Chuck finally called back. Maybe his receptionist had read him the riot act. He’d blackmailed someone into blackmailing someone into getting me a part.
I’d been drinking the night before, needless to say. Chuck called at nine and gave me the address of a studio. Not one of the majors—but not somebody’s garage in Pasadena, either.
I asked what the picture was called. He said, “ Not Guilty. ” Then louder, “ Not Guilty! With an exclamation point!”
I asked when I could see the script. Chuck said he didn’t have one. I should just show up on the set and they’d take it from there. Then he said, “To sweeten the
“Oh Betty! Gosh I thought it was you .”
School for Murder
Francine Prose
All summer I kept hearing people say desperate . Actors are always eavesdropping on strangers, picking up phrases, gestures, stuff we can use. And wherever I went, whenever I listened in, I heard: desperate, desperate, desperate!
At the pharmacy, I heard a dame say, “Hon, if my landlord evicts me, things are gonna get desperate.” A buddy of mine said, “If my girl in New York doesn’t call pretty soon, man… I’m desperate.” I overheard a bum on Skid Row say, “That jerk better pay me back, I don’t care how desperate he is.”
The funny thing was, this was 1947. Desperation was yesterday’s mashed potatoes. Happy days were here again. The Depression was over, the war was over, we’d dropped the bomb, we’d won. Guys like me had defended our country, and girls appreciated that. I’d been in the battle of Okinawa. That was pretty much all I had to say and gals would feel like it was their personal mission to heal whatever was broken.
In L.A., the studios were popping out pictures like bunnies having babies. L.A. was the place to be! As soon as I got discharged, I spent a week with my mom in Seattle, then stuck out my thumb and headed south. Hollywood, here I come!
For a while, it seemed I was getting paid back for risking my life and seeing things I shouldn’t have seen. Horrors I kept seeing in those nightmares I’d wake up from, drenched and shaking.
At first, good things were coming my way. No great things, I wouldn’t say great. But I was making a living.
Everyone knew about the stars who’d started out as extras, or with one-sentence walk-ons that made some producer sit up and ask, “Who’s that? Get me his agent on the phone.” Bit parts were a foot in the door. I was glad to get them.
If you’ve seen enough pictures from those years, you’ve probably seen me. I’m the croupier in that scene where Barbara Stanwyck wins all that money. I’m a ranger out searching for the kid right before Lassie finds him. I give Bing Crosby directions in Road to Utopia .
For a while life looked rosy. Then… my luck turned. People lost interest. If I’d had a dollar for every time I heard the line, “My agent stopped returning my calls,” this story wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have needed the money. But it wasn’t about the money. Or maybe a little about the money. Maybe the reason I kept hearing people say desperate was because it described my state of mind—and my bank account.
At Gatsby’s, the actors’ bar where my unemployed friends and I hung out, the clientele was so desperate we never used the word.
Chuck was my agent at the time. The one not returning my calls. The boys at Gatsby’s gave me advice. They said, “Vince, you need to get heavy with the guy.” You could ask why I took the advice of other unemployed actors. But I did. I made a real pest of myself, called my agent twenty times a day. His receptionist hated my guts. But she had to pick up the phone.
Chuck finally called back. Maybe his receptionist had read him the riot act. He’d blackmailed someone into blackmailing someone into getting me a part.
I’d been drinking the night before, needless to say. Chuck called at nine and gave me the address of a studio. Not one of the majors—but not somebody’s garage in Pasadena, either.
I asked what the picture was called. He said, “ Not Guilty. ” Then louder, “ Not Guilty! With an exclamation point!”
I asked when I could see the script. Chuck said he didn’t have one. I should just show up on the set and they’d take it from there. Then he said, “To sweeten the
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