couldn’t match Jerry, who spent every second of visiting hours all three days glued to her bedside, invoking alternately soft and firm warnings to Midge, insisting she promise that she’d never, ever do anything like that again. Hop watched from the doorway as Midge focused on Jerry’s dark hooded eyes, listening to every word, nodding and nodding, and slowly, slowly losing all interest in Hop—even in making him sorry, which had been her most favorite thing, the only thing she enjoyed, for so long.
Later, Hop would be sorry without her even trying—sorry for Jerry when, ten months later, she moved out of their house and into his bachelor pad, consummating what was, when he thought about it, an eventuality long in the cards, a romance begun even before they’d met.
He was suddenly jarred out of his thoughts by a loud thump on his driver’s-side window. With a jolt, he turned his head to see Jerry himself, tidiest reporter on either coast, in a finely cut blue suit—a vision of order disrupted only by three red marks on his face, three dainty curves, the unmistakable mark of Midge’s tiny, witchy little nails. He’d worn those marks many times himself.
He rolled his window down all the way and gave Jerry a knowing smile.
“What did the other alley cat look like?”
“You’re too embarrassed to show your face so you stake me out like a cheating wife?”
“Bad example,” Hop noted, grinning up at his friend, playing it jokey, wishing it were. After humiliating himself last night, he couldn’t quite look him in the eye. But the claw marks helped.
“These, my boy, were meant for you,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, but somehow I think they’re all yours now. It’s the price you pay for those spectacular breasts.”
Jerry looked down at his own chest. “They’re okay, I guess.” Then,
leaning closer to the car, he said, “You know I won’t ask why—”
“I know,” Hop said quickly, his voice creaking strangely.
“A drink?”
“Ah, I can’t. Work.” He wanted to tell Jerry about the fix he was in.
That was what he did with Jerry. But telling him anything meant telling him everything. He wasn’t ready for that.
“Maybe later?”
“Sure. Definitely.”
“Musso’s at seven?”
“That’ll work.” “Okay.” Jerry kept eyeing him, trying to get a read. It made Hop
nervous and ashamed. “You’re just going to sit out here?”
Hop shrugged, smiling. “Taking a minute for myself, big guy.”
‘You’re a lousy liar, Gil.”
“I think you know that’s not true,” Hop said, looking straight
ahead. “Fuck me, Jerry. Okay, I’m waiting for Frannie Adair.”
Jerry’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh … is that how it is?”
“We’ll see. I think she likes me, baby.”
“Maybe so, heartbreaker, but she just left…”
Hop felt his chest leap. ‘You don’t say,” he said, looking over at the
rear glass doors he’d been watching for more than an hour. Thought she was a backdoor girl.”
“Driving over to your studio, in fact. Maybe to see you?”
“Maybe, maybe.” Hop turned his key. “I’ll find out.”
See you at seven.” Jerry stepped away from the car just as Hop punched the gas.
Yeah, yeah, sweetheart.”
From across the soundstage, Hop could see Frannie talking to Alan Winsted, a sight that made him cringe. Alan, twenty-two years old, gawky, long-necked, and dateless—wouldn’t he love the opportunity to help Frannie Adair and her fire-engine-red hair?
He moved as close as he could, creeping over the cables and behind large sets of lights, cranes, whatever those things—arc lights?—were called. Hop knew very little about actual moviemaking (“only starmaking,” he’d told many a young ingenue, with a confident wink).
He could just make out Frannie’s sincere tone: “. .. trying to find out what movies were shooting on a particular night two years back. Could you help me with that?”
And Alan, sounding official: “… through the press office? They
Later, Hop would be sorry without her even trying—sorry for Jerry when, ten months later, she moved out of their house and into his bachelor pad, consummating what was, when he thought about it, an eventuality long in the cards, a romance begun even before they’d met.
He was suddenly jarred out of his thoughts by a loud thump on his driver’s-side window. With a jolt, he turned his head to see Jerry himself, tidiest reporter on either coast, in a finely cut blue suit—a vision of order disrupted only by three red marks on his face, three dainty curves, the unmistakable mark of Midge’s tiny, witchy little nails. He’d worn those marks many times himself.
He rolled his window down all the way and gave Jerry a knowing smile.
“What did the other alley cat look like?”
“You’re too embarrassed to show your face so you stake me out like a cheating wife?”
“Bad example,” Hop noted, grinning up at his friend, playing it jokey, wishing it were. After humiliating himself last night, he couldn’t quite look him in the eye. But the claw marks helped.
“These, my boy, were meant for you,” Jerry said.
“Yeah, but somehow I think they’re all yours now. It’s the price you pay for those spectacular breasts.”
Jerry looked down at his own chest. “They’re okay, I guess.” Then,
leaning closer to the car, he said, “You know I won’t ask why—”
“I know,” Hop said quickly, his voice creaking strangely.
“A drink?”
“Ah, I can’t. Work.” He wanted to tell Jerry about the fix he was in.
That was what he did with Jerry. But telling him anything meant telling him everything. He wasn’t ready for that.
“Maybe later?”
“Sure. Definitely.”
“Musso’s at seven?”
“That’ll work.” “Okay.” Jerry kept eyeing him, trying to get a read. It made Hop
nervous and ashamed. “You’re just going to sit out here?”
Hop shrugged, smiling. “Taking a minute for myself, big guy.”
‘You’re a lousy liar, Gil.”
“I think you know that’s not true,” Hop said, looking straight
ahead. “Fuck me, Jerry. Okay, I’m waiting for Frannie Adair.”
Jerry’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh … is that how it is?”
“We’ll see. I think she likes me, baby.”
“Maybe so, heartbreaker, but she just left…”
Hop felt his chest leap. ‘You don’t say,” he said, looking over at the
rear glass doors he’d been watching for more than an hour. Thought she was a backdoor girl.”
“Driving over to your studio, in fact. Maybe to see you?”
“Maybe, maybe.” Hop turned his key. “I’ll find out.”
See you at seven.” Jerry stepped away from the car just as Hop punched the gas.
Yeah, yeah, sweetheart.”
From across the soundstage, Hop could see Frannie talking to Alan Winsted, a sight that made him cringe. Alan, twenty-two years old, gawky, long-necked, and dateless—wouldn’t he love the opportunity to help Frannie Adair and her fire-engine-red hair?
He moved as close as he could, creeping over the cables and behind large sets of lights, cranes, whatever those things—arc lights?—were called. Hop knew very little about actual moviemaking (“only starmaking,” he’d told many a young ingenue, with a confident wink).
He could just make out Frannie’s sincere tone: “. .. trying to find out what movies were shooting on a particular night two years back. Could you help me with that?”
And Alan, sounding official: “… through the press office? They
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