He didn’t beat around the bush. I liked that. “Yes.” The waiter was back like magic, pouring steaming brew into a delicate china cup and adding a splash of cream.
He fixed me with a stare. His eyes were the color of honey, ringed with chocolate-dark lashes, almost as if the makeup artists had a go at him. He took out a cigarette, an expensive foreign brand, and tapped it on the white linen. “Why?”
My reasons swirled together like the cream in my coffee. To hold my head high again in Odessa. To hear Papa say, “I’m proud of you,Liebchen.” To show Penny I could do something right. To save the farm so losing it wouldn’t kill Papa. But I didn’t say anyof that. The answers that made sense—fame and glory and all that applesauce—I didn’t want to say those either. I shrugged. “Because I’d be good at it.” It was as good a reason as any.
I sipped my coffee and Max struck a match. The end of the cigarette glowed red.
The waiter came back, carrying a tray covered with a silver dome. He set it in front of me and lifted the cover with a flourish. Thinly sliced roast beef piled high on thick golden toast, horseradish dripping down the sides, a chocolate malt in a frosted glass. I ignored my rumbling stomach. “I’ve answered your question, Mr. Clark. My turn.”
Max Clark leaned back and, crossing his legs, breathed out a curl of pale smoke. “Go ’head, ask me anything. I’ll always play it straight, and that’s something in this town.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’ve seen you around at the studios.” He took another pull on his cigarette. “How long you been here? Six months?”
My face must have shown him the answer.
“Longer, huh? You have grit. I saw that today. But grit doesn’t get you parts. You know what does?”
How was it that he was asking questions again? But I answered quick, “Talent.”
He snorted a laugh and tapped his smoke on the crystal ashtray. “That’s a good one.” He looked me up and down, and a flush crept up my cheeks. “Not talent, sweetheart. Not looks, either, although you’ve got that in spades.” He eyed me from under his long lashes, and my heart did a little number. “Connections. That’s what this town is about. And that’s what I have.”
Just then, my stomach growled so loud I think they heard it on the dance floor.
“Dig in,” Max said, looking me over. “You could use a few good meals.”
“That’s my lookout, buster.” I was a little on the skinny side; he didn’t have to say it. I used my knife and fork to cut the sandwich into small pieces and told myself to eat slow, but it was the best thing I’d tasted in months. I looked him over as he stirred his coffee. I wasn’t some dumb bunny. I’d heard plenty about girls being taken in by handsome con men, and I wasn’t about to join their ranks.
Max glanced up as if he knew my thoughts. “Miss Sinclaire, I’m on the level.”
I swallowed and wiped horseradish off the corner of my mouth. “Why should I believe you?”
He looked at me sideways and raised his cigarette to the room. “I got you in here, didn’t I?”
He had a point. But I still wasn’t sold. I had two questions, and he had to answer them straight. I put down my knife and fork. “What’s in it for you?”
“There you go, being up front. I like that about you.”
He was charming all right, but I’d been burned by charm before. “Cut the baloney.”
He blew a silver veil of Turkish smoke. “Twenty percent, off the top.”
Twenty percent was a big cut. But one hundred percent of nothing was what I made now.
He watched me think, then added, “If I don’t get you a studio contract in six months, we part ways, no charge, no hard feelings.”
A studio contract.The words were like gin to a dipsomaniac. I could send money home to Papa for the taxes and the mortgage. After a few months on contract, I could go home with everything I needed. But I had one more question. “Why me?”
He met my eyes, his face earnest. “I’ve seen you around. You’ve got determination and you work hard. I think you have what it takes.”
Hard work and determination. I covered my flicker of pride by taking a big sip of my malt. It was heaven.
Max waved his cigarette toward the window. “You know that girl today, the one who couldn’t dance and got the part instead of you?”
How could I forget?
“She’s the casting director’s niece. Fresh off the bus from Akron.”
