The Drazen World: The California Limited (Kindle Worlds Novella) by Catherine C. Heywood
Authors: Catherine C. Heywood
Ads: Link
the star in her had dimmed just a little by the time she took the deck. Smiles were tight. Poses were forced. It was the rare one of them who would truly be seen. Rarer than that was the one who would become a star.
“I’m sure that you are already aware…”
The girls bent their heads and whispered to each other, smiling at Jack.
“…that Mr. Drazen would be a most advantageous ally and friend in securing a coveted spot in the Canary and one day, if you are very talented and very lucky, on the main stage.”
Jack smiled widely as the whispers became more animated, the smiles even friendlier. “This is the hardest part of my job,” he said to his friend with some amusement.
“At his right,” Evelyn continued, pulling her dark, pointy glasses down her nose as if she did not know who sat beside him, “is the director of Stagecoach and The Grapes of Wrath . You might have heard of him. Mr. Ford.”
Ford waved to the girls before throwing a dubious glance at Jack.
“What?” Jack replied with an innocent smile. “They may want me to fuck them, but they want you to cast them. They all want to be the next Claire Trevor.”
“If they want an inroad at Fox, they’ll throw me a smile,” said Ford. “If they want an inroad at every studio, they’ll throw you their underwear.”
“They do, friend. Never fear,” said Jack.
“I don’t fear for your prick, Jack. If I had a nickel for every time some producer had fallen for one of your Canary Girls…”
Jack chuckled as he took a sip of his gin rickey and watched the girls now parading around the lido deck.
When the parade was finished, Jack and Ford handed slips of paper to Evelyn.
“Good show as always, Miss Shively,” said Ford.
She tipped her head to him. “Thank you, Mr. Ford. We do pride ourselves in our stock.”
“And you’ll see that numbers sixteen and twenty-seven find their way to Fox.”
“Happy to, Mr. Ford. I know they’ll be honored by your interest.”
“You’ll give number twenty-three my room details?” asked Jack. “Tell her I might be able to find a cigarette tray for her.”
“Of course, Mr. Drazen,” she replied. “Midnight as per usual?”
Jack nodded and turned back to Ford.
“Drazen’s famous Canary Girls Hierarchy,” said Ford. “What do you give the girls on the main stage?”
“I don’t sleep with the girls when they make the main stage,” said Jack.
“Why not?”
“They’re not grateful enough. I want them begging for it.”
“Mr. Drazen.” His secretary Gretchen appeared at the table. “Your three o’clock is here.”
Jack stood at the top of the grand staircase leading down into the 10,000 square ft. ballroom. The ceiling soared several stories high, littered by a canopy of cut and lit stars that were sprinkled between papier-mâché palm leaves from an old movie set. It was a jewelry box of bold eggplant purple fabrics and sparkling gold finishes, geometric shapes, and lavish ornamentation. Brilliant gold and crystal chandeliers dangled like icicles and shone warmly on the brightest jewels in moviemaking. Private boxes all around the second floor overlooked the large expanse of tables, open dance floor, and grand stage on the first. Guests, and it was always full, weaved around life-like palm trees and under the famous gilded bird cages that housed dancing girls in sheer leotards with barely-concealing canary yellow feathers swinging from swings and seducing patrons. It was as large and grandiose a place as the egos of the people who frequented it and that was just as Jack had intended.
He owned other nightclubs, other hotels, purchasing or building a new Ambassador complete with its own fine restaurant or nightclub, one for every year of the past six. But the Canary Lounge – the premiere celebrity oasis for LA’s movie scene; everyone who was anyone and anyone who wanted to be someone came and mingled and dined and danced
“I’m sure that you are already aware…”
The girls bent their heads and whispered to each other, smiling at Jack.
“…that Mr. Drazen would be a most advantageous ally and friend in securing a coveted spot in the Canary and one day, if you are very talented and very lucky, on the main stage.”
Jack smiled widely as the whispers became more animated, the smiles even friendlier. “This is the hardest part of my job,” he said to his friend with some amusement.
“At his right,” Evelyn continued, pulling her dark, pointy glasses down her nose as if she did not know who sat beside him, “is the director of Stagecoach and The Grapes of Wrath . You might have heard of him. Mr. Ford.”
Ford waved to the girls before throwing a dubious glance at Jack.
“What?” Jack replied with an innocent smile. “They may want me to fuck them, but they want you to cast them. They all want to be the next Claire Trevor.”
“If they want an inroad at Fox, they’ll throw me a smile,” said Ford. “If they want an inroad at every studio, they’ll throw you their underwear.”
“They do, friend. Never fear,” said Jack.
“I don’t fear for your prick, Jack. If I had a nickel for every time some producer had fallen for one of your Canary Girls…”
Jack chuckled as he took a sip of his gin rickey and watched the girls now parading around the lido deck.
When the parade was finished, Jack and Ford handed slips of paper to Evelyn.
“Good show as always, Miss Shively,” said Ford.
She tipped her head to him. “Thank you, Mr. Ford. We do pride ourselves in our stock.”
“And you’ll see that numbers sixteen and twenty-seven find their way to Fox.”
“Happy to, Mr. Ford. I know they’ll be honored by your interest.”
“You’ll give number twenty-three my room details?” asked Jack. “Tell her I might be able to find a cigarette tray for her.”
“Of course, Mr. Drazen,” she replied. “Midnight as per usual?”
Jack nodded and turned back to Ford.
“Drazen’s famous Canary Girls Hierarchy,” said Ford. “What do you give the girls on the main stage?”
“I don’t sleep with the girls when they make the main stage,” said Jack.
“Why not?”
“They’re not grateful enough. I want them begging for it.”
“Mr. Drazen.” His secretary Gretchen appeared at the table. “Your three o’clock is here.”
Jack stood at the top of the grand staircase leading down into the 10,000 square ft. ballroom. The ceiling soared several stories high, littered by a canopy of cut and lit stars that were sprinkled between papier-mâché palm leaves from an old movie set. It was a jewelry box of bold eggplant purple fabrics and sparkling gold finishes, geometric shapes, and lavish ornamentation. Brilliant gold and crystal chandeliers dangled like icicles and shone warmly on the brightest jewels in moviemaking. Private boxes all around the second floor overlooked the large expanse of tables, open dance floor, and grand stage on the first. Guests, and it was always full, weaved around life-like palm trees and under the famous gilded bird cages that housed dancing girls in sheer leotards with barely-concealing canary yellow feathers swinging from swings and seducing patrons. It was as large and grandiose a place as the egos of the people who frequented it and that was just as Jack had intended.
He owned other nightclubs, other hotels, purchasing or building a new Ambassador complete with its own fine restaurant or nightclub, one for every year of the past six. But the Canary Lounge – the premiere celebrity oasis for LA’s movie scene; everyone who was anyone and anyone who wanted to be someone came and mingled and dined and danced
Similar Books
