“See, what I could do is talk to the limo guys along those lines,” Chili said, “make the point in a way they’d understand it.”
He reached over to take the cigarette from Harry’s fingers.
“You gonna smoke this?”
“No, it’s yours.”
Harry struck a match to light it.
“What would you say?”
“I’d tell ’em it’s in their best interest, till you’re ready for ’em, to stay the fuck off your back. Isn’t that what you want?”
“You don’t know these guys.”
“It’s up to you, Harry.”
Chili watched Harry’s gaze follow a stream of smoke. Harry the producer, with his forty-nine horror movies and his frizzy hair, looking at the offer. His gaze came back to Chili, his expression tired but hopeful.
“What do you get out of this?”
“Let’s see how we get along,” Chili said. “I’ll let you know.” He thought of something that had been on his mind and said to Harry, “The seven hundred-pound broad that seduces guys in her trailer—what exactly does she do?”
Karen felt the bed move beneath Harry’s weight. Lying on her side she opened her eyes to see digital numbers in the dark, 4:12 in pale green. Behind her Harry continued to move, settling in. She watched the numbers change to 4:13.
“Harry.”
“Oh, you awake?”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s late—I felt you wouldn’t mind if he stayed over.”
“Harry, this isn’t your house.”
“Just tonight. I put him in the maid’s room.”
“I don’t have a maid’s room.”
“The one back by the kitchen?”
There was a silence.
“I don’t get it.”
“What?”
“This guy—what’re you doing?”
“He’s got some ideas, gonna help me out.”
“Harry, the guy’s a crook.”
“So? This town he should fit right in.”
Harry rolled away from her, groaning in comfort.
“Night.”
There was a silence, the house quiet.
“Harry?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on?”
“I told you.”
“You want me to call you a cab? You and your buddy?”
She felt Harry roll back toward her.
9 
Chili asked Harry if he liked to sleep in. He said, “If you’re gonna sleep in and 1 have to sit around waiting, forget it. Anything I can’t stand is waiting for people.”
Harry acted surprised. He said it was only ten after ten. “I got back in bed and Karen wanted to talk.”
That stopped Chili.
He wanted to know if Harry was putting him on or what. He couldn’t imagine Karen letting this fat guy get in bed with her. But there was no way to find out if it was true.
He said, “Well, she was up, no problem. She dropped me off to get my car. I come back and have to sit here another hour.”
Harry said the limo guys never got to their office before ten-thirty eleven anyway. Then they’d discuss for about an hour where they were going to have lunch and take off. He said it didn’t matter what time you went to see the limo guys, you always had to wait.
Chili said, “Harry, we don’t go see them. They come see us. You want to make the call or you want me to?”
Now they were in Harry’s office: upstairs in a two-story building that was part of a block of white storefronts, on Sunset Boulevard near La Cienega. Harry turned on lights, wall sconces in the shape of candles against dark paneling, raised venetian blinds behind his big desk stacked with folders, magazines, scripts, papers, unopened mail, hotel ashtrays, a brass lamp, a clock, two telephones . . .
“Remember 77 Sunset Strip on TV? Edd Kookie Byrnes, the parking attendant always combing his hair?”
Harry nodded out the window.
“They used a place right across the street for exteriors. I used to stand here and watch ’em shoot. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., and Roger Smith were the stars, but the one you remember is Kookie.”
“I wanted blond hair just like his, with the pompadour,” Chili said. “I was about ten,” He watched Harry staring out the window. “What about the script?”
“That’s right,” Harry said, “you haven’t read it.”
“I don’t even know what it’s about.”
Going through the pile on his desk, Harry said he hadn’t been in the office much lately and his girl, Kathleen, had left him to work for the guy that owned the building, a literary agent who’d been working in Hollywood over fifty years. Had lunch at Chasen’s every day, or he’d call and have them deliver. Scallops and creamed spinach. Go down the hall right now—Harry bet that’s what he’d be eating, scallops and spinach. “I asked him one time what type of writing brought the most money and the agent says, ‘Ransom notes.’ ”
“What about the script, Harry?”
The guy’s mind was wandering all over the place. In the car on the way here, Harry had started talking about Mr. Lovejoy, the story, but was barely into it when he said, “The famous Trocadero once stood right there,” and the ride to the office became a tour of Sunset Strip, Harry pointing out mostly where places used to be. Schwab’s drugstore. Ciro’s, known for movie-star bar fights, now the Comedy Store. A restaurant that was once John Barrymore’s guesthouse. The Garden of Allah, where movie stars used to shack up, now a bank and a parking lot. The Chateau Marmont was still there—look at it—home on and off to Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo, Howard Hughes, where John Belushi checked out. Harry wide-awake, but off into Old Hollywood. Then telling what it was like when hippies took over the Strip, little broads in granny dresses, traffic bumper to bumper. “By the time you got from Doheny to here, you were stoned on the marijuana fumes.” Chili reminded him the limo guys were coming at noon and Harry said, “Oh . . . yeah.”
He poked through the clutter on his desk till he came to several Mr. Lovejoy scripts. “Here it is.”
Chili picked one up, the first time he’d ever held a movie script in his hands. He had no idea what it would look like. It wasn’t as thick as he thought it would be, less than an inch of pages between red covers, ZigZag Productions printed in gold on the front with speedlines coming off the lettering, the way they showed cars moving in a comic strip. Chili opened the script about in the middle, studied the way the page was set up and began to read, not understanding the first word he saw but kept going.
INT. LOVEJOY’SVAN – DAY
Ilona sits behind the wheel watching the corner bar across the street. Behind her, Lovejoy is getting his video camera ready for action.
ILONA How long’s he been in there?
LOVEJOY (glancing at his watch)
Seventeen and a half minutes.
ILONA I wish he’d hurry up.
LOVEJOY
(focusing camera) We have to be patient. But sooner or later . . .
ILONA There he is!
LOVEJOY (quietly) I see him.
EXT. CORNER BAR – CLOSE ON ROXY – DAY
Roxy hooks his thumbs in his belt, looks about idly. Gradually his gaze moves to the van and holds.
INT. LOVEJOY’SVAN – DAY
Ilona reacts, hunching down behind the wheel.
ILONA He sees us!
LOVEJOY No, he’s walking to the car. Ilona, this could be it!!!
Chili looked up from the script. “What’s he doing, following the guy?”
“Read it,” Harry said. “It’s a grabber.”
Chili closed the script, laid it on the desk where he stood between a pair of fat red-leather chairs, old and cracked. He said to Harry, “We better get ready,” placing his hands on the chairs. “Make sure they sit here, not over on the sofa.” He saw Harry tugging at the string to lower the venetian blinds. “Leave ’em up, we want the light in their eyes. I’ll be at the desk . . . But don’t introduce me, let it go, just start talking. You’re gonna be here.” Chili stepped back from the chairs. “Behind ’em when they sit down.”