But I did. God forgive me, I did.
Three weeks later when I hadn’t had a good meal in days, Bert took me aside. Cal was coming by again and wanted to see me. It was for the farm, I told myself. For Papa and Penny. I guess I was pretty far gone to believe that hogwash. I drank more whisky, but it didn’t make it any easier. When I wrote my weekly letter to Penny, I asked her a question.
Penny, what will God think of what I’ve done? Does he have something like a big account book, like the one I kept on the farm? With all the good I’ve done entered on one side, and allthe bad on the other, and in the end he figures if I’m in the red or the black? I figure I’m in the red, Penny. Have been for a long time. If I try hard enough, maybe I can balance it out. I hope so.
I didn’t even pretend I’d mail this one but stuck it with all the others in the hatbox.
When the November rent came due and Cal came back a third time, I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t think I could, to be honest. That time, I drank everything in Bert’s flask, and I don’t remember much. But the next morning, I woke with the ten dollars clutched in my hand and asked myself what I’d turned into. I didn’t like my answer.
I was between a rock and hard place, as they say, and I didn’t know how to get out. I prayed for real then, even though I figured that God—if he was as good as they said he was—wouldn’t help somebody like me. But maybe God did hear my prayer, because the next day, I met Max.
——————
When Max found me, I figured he was either the answer to a prayer or the biggest mistake I ever made. Turns out, he was both.
That morning, the room I shared with Lana and the bedbugs smelled like sardines and cheap perfume. Outside the grimy windows, the sky was blanched to the color of dirty linen, as if the November sun itself was tired of shining on Los Angeles. Across the street, a new building was going up like they were all over the city. The pounding of the workers kept time with the hammering in my head.
I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the washroom, hoping it was empty.
The day before, I’d overheard a girl at Central Casting say RKO was looking for a tall redhead for a part in a dance revue. I wasn’t particularly tall and not technically a redhead, but I could dance any steps they threw at me. Best of all, it paid twenty dollars. That would give me a little breathing room. I wouldn’t have to resort to desperate measures again.
Desperate measures sounded better than what it was actually called.
I washed up and did my hair in the cloudy mirror. Back in our room, I dressed in my blue linen, the brown cloche, and my crocodile shoes. My hair was smooth, my lipstick perfect. My eyes were a little bloodshot from the night before, but there was nothing for it.
When the casting director called me onto the set, I said the lines as smooth as glass and danced like a pro. I got called back with a half dozen other girls. This was going to be my break. I could feel it. A small crowd of spectators gathered as we went through the routine three more times. Finally, the casting director—short and as bald as a lightbulb—gave the nod to the girl on my left. “Thanks, you can go,” he said to the rest of us.
I tried to be polite—I really did—but a girl can’t keep quiet in the face of that kind of bushwah. “Are you sure about that?”
“Sure I’m sure.” He said, drawing himself up to all his five feet.
I could have spit tacks. I’d auditioned for everything from cowgirls to barmaids. I’d pounded the pavement until my best heels were worn to nubs, and now my twenty dollars went to this girl with two left feet? “Listen here, buster. I’m sure she’s a sweet girl—” I looked over at her. She snapped her chewing gum and didn’t look concerned. “But a potato on a stick can dance better.” I pointed to the girl’s orange waves. “And she’s not even a real redhead.”
His cheeks puffed out and his beady eyes narrowed. “Get this—”he looked down at his clipboard—“Miss Minerva Sinclaire.” He said my name like it tasted bad. “The call’s final. Now beat it, and don’t bother coming back.”
Waiting for my trolley five minutes later, I was kicking myself. Word got around fast in this town, and girls who talked back weren’t brought back. A woman standing next to me had a cardboard suitcase and shoes bound together with twine. Her dress was at least two sizes too big for her. A panicky flutter started in my chest. Was that what would happen to me? Would I end up like so many of the women here in the City of Angels, desperate, alone, starving?
That’s when Max sauntered up, looking like he had nowhere special to go. Every girl on the corner watched him. He was tall with wide shoulders and long legs—a little like the cowboys who hung around Central Casting—but his three-piece was sharp enough to slice a steak, and his two-toned wingtips bright as new pennies. Except for a crook in his nose, his profile was perfect.
One dark curl threatened to make a getaway from his tipped fedora as he tossed a nod toward the studio across the street. “You’re not making it easy on yourself, kicking up a fuss.”
So, he’d seen my tantrum. Goody for him. I shrugged.
“Max Clark,” he said, sticking out his hand.
I took his hand and tried to figure his game. I’d learned a few things about people since I came to Hollywood, the most important being everybody wanted something.
He smiled. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
I was pretty sure that smile had nailed more than a few hearts to the wall, but a cup of coffee sounded good, and my feet were killing me. I slipped my hand through the crook of elbow he offered. He steered me along Sunset, past the Egyptian Theatre and across thestreet, stopping traffic like he owned the road. I tried to be cool as we breezed past the line at the Montmartre, reminding myself to close my mouth as Max Clark handed his hat—a black fedora with silk trim—to the smiling maître d’ who had looked down his nose at me all those months ago.
Max guided me into what seemed like another world. The air was cool, as if even the summer heat wasn’t allowed in without the proper escort. A small orchestra played in the center of the room, and we angled around the gleaming dance floor where couples tangoed in the middle of the day. Chandeliers sparkled off silver and crystal as a waiter pulled out my chair at a table draped in white linen and stood by while I sat.
“Two cups of coffee, Al.” Max eyed me and leaned back in his chair. “And bring the lady a roast beef sandwich and chocolate malt.”
He wanted something all right, but in this place I was ready to listen, and I wasn’t about to turn down a sandwich.
“So,” he said, pulling a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, “you want to be a film star?”
