Faulkner & Hollywood

(continued)

By D.E. Fredd

"Are you sober today?" Solly had the habit of adjusting his glasses using his middle finger. I suspect the gesture was his none-too-subtle rebuke of my County Cork heritage.

"I really don't drink, Mr. Weinstein."

"I remember you could hardly keep the car on the road yesterday. If you weren't drunk you must have been jerking off."

As he spoke he held his fingers to his forehead to theatrically emulate the remembering process. Gladys had clued me earlier in the morning that Solly's libido had been attended to, so any current invectives would probably be mild. I'd been with him for three months now and knew that silence, like a fighter covering up on the ropes, left no vital area open, and he'd soon punch himself out.

"I need to you go to Glendale, pick up somebody, give her this note and then drive her where she tells you. Can your Mick-shit-for-brains mind follow that?" The verbal message was a bit garbled because he was using both hands to paw through some papers, his jaws clenching a stylish cigarette holder (another Hollywood affectation, like his Valentino mustache and English-style riding lessons), so he was hard to understand.

"Glendale, deliver note, follow instructions." I said, hoping I'd heard correctly.

"Have Gladys take the mileage down. I don't want you driving all over creation or stopping by the track to play the gee-gees. The studio will spring for lunch, get a receipt, and if the job takes you into the dinner hour, you're on your own, verstähen?"

"I'll be back as quickly as I can, Mr. Weinstein." I almost ran out of the office. A day without Solly was a day of brilliant sunshine. I had time to wink at Gladys as she was coming in the door with the mileage. She flashed me a glance at the slip of paper, and I saw she'd inflated the starting miles, so if I got lost, I'd have some leeway. Before I could say thank you, Solly bellowed her name, and I wondered what fate had in store for her behind his locked office door for the next few minutes.

Since it was a beautiful Los Angeles morning, I decided to take the long way — up Hollywood Boulevard then west on Ventura. The studio car Solly preferred was a LaFayette sedan, six windows and a hood so long you could go bowling on it. It had eight cylinders that idled with a deep-throated purr. Gladys kidded me about waxing the wax, but its shine was so deep she could powder her nose using the door as her mirror. I was never allowed to take the car home overnight, but a few times during errands I snuck down to East L.A., so Ma and Rose could get a look at what real class was.

I got to the Glendale address at eleven-thirty, a huge mansion set back from the street directly across from Brand Park. I unlatched the floral-patterned, wrought-iron gates and drove up the crushed stone drive to the front. I debated whether to wait a few minutes or go up to the door. One of the worst tongue lashings I ever got from Solly was a time I honked the horn in a similar situation. He went on for days about my shanty Irish background and total lack of couth. Before I had time to dwell further on that inglorious moment, the door opened and a tall Negro came out. He placed a small overnight bag on the top step as if it were a puppy that had soiled the carpet. A Garbo-like pair of sunglasses and kerchief followed in his wake, brushing by him with nary a nod.

I stepped forward, straightened my chauffeur's cap and was ready to retrieve the bag when she stopped, backtracked, snatched it up and headed towards the car.

"Please tell me Solly's not with you!" she said in a stage whisper when she got up close to me, partially covering her mouth from any potential lip readers in the vehicle

"He's back in the office; I'm to give you this note and then do what you say."

She was so relieved she stopped, grabbed me in a bear hug and hung on. Finally she gave a heavy sigh and let go. "You're Billy Flynn's brother?"

I opened the back door for her. "Actually we're not related unless he marries my sister Rose."

She told me to forget the rear and opened the passenger side herself. "I'd rather ride up front with the proletariat; too many unpleasant memories in the back. Got any smokes?"

I didn't smoke, but she accepted a stick of Wrigley's. She introduced herself as Margot Allain, pleasantly surprised that I had heard of her. With her dark glasses off and kerchief in her lap, she settled back into the leather seat, closed her eyes and relaxed. She was a bottle blonde, her hair stiff from too many permanent waves and hastily brushed into shape this morning. She had the Hollywood look. In my neighborhood, or most any other for that matter, she would stand out like a sore thumb. But in the tiny enclave of movie producers and casting agents she conformed to the studio ideal. With her hair done right, an hour with a makeup artist and in the right light, she'd knock your socks off. Today she looked like a week-old floral arrangement.