“Escape,” Max answered. “When your stomach’s empty, a nickel will buy you a cup of coffee. Or you can see a cartoon, a newsreel, a B film, and the feature. That’s four hours’ escape from your worries. A bargain.”
I knew about that. Maybe this Alfie was on to something.
The first step in Max’s plan was that I was seen by the right people, in the right places. “Just glimpses, I don’t want to push you at them,” he said. “You follow?”
“Just enough for them to want more?” I said.
“You got it,” he said like I’d aced an arithmetic test. “You’re going to start out with a leading role. And in an A picture—no Bs or quickies.”
I wasn’t going to kick about that.
“No more waiting around at Central Casting, either,” Max went on. “That’s the fastest way down. And you, sister—” he hit me with that smile that made me feel like I was the only woman in his world—“you are on your way up.”
I wrote to Penny then.
Dear Penny,
I’ve met somebody who might change everything. Maybe this story will have a happy ending after all.
I didn’t mail it for fear I’d jinx my luck.
Max made sure I was seen all over town. He took me to theAmbassador for dinner every Friday night, and I gawked when I saw the likes of Buster Keaton and Joan Crawford eating just like everybody else. Monday evenings we were at the Montmartre—the place he’d taken me that first day we met—because that was where everybody who was anybody went on the first day of the week. Once a week we went dancing, even if my feet were aching from a shift at the Derby. Max was light on his feet and kept me smiling with his whispered comments about the clientele.
The first night we danced at the Cocoanut Grove, I bungled a step when we brushed by Jean Harlow locked in a kiss with a much older man. “Don’t be shocked,” Max said, covering for me with a quick turn. “They’re married.” He leaned me into a deep dip and whispered in my ear, “Just not to each other.” I gulped and tried to look more sophisticated. I don’t think I fooled Max.
Fox-trotting at El Jardin in the Beverly Hills Hotel one night, Max whispered, “Look sharp, Mina,” and jerked his chin toward a corner table. There sat Louis B. Mayer, his round glasses perched on an eagle’s-beak nose, and right beside him none other than Irving Thalberg, the one they called Boy Wonder because every picture he produced was destined for greatness. Before I had a chance to be nervous, Max’s hand tightened around mine and he twirled me out, reeling me back in with a wink. Max made sure they saw plenty of fancy footwork before we left.
On the way back to my place, with the scent of lilies in the dark and music still running through my head, Max looked sideways at me with a funny smirk.
“What?”
“You’re humming.”
“Am not.” But he was right. When I was happy, I hummed. Papa had always teased me about it.
The best part was, every night Max took me out, he saw me to the door of Mrs. Perfall’s by eleven thirty, wishing me a cordial good night. No funny stuff. It sure was a relief.
I might have been Max’s only client, but I sure as shooting wasn’t the only woman in his life. Most Saturday nights, I pulled a shift at the Derby, and he was there with one of his ebony-haired gal pals. There were three or four of them from what I could tell—all swanky clothes and red pouts. They weren’t hideous, but they hung on him like he was going to make his getaway as soon as their backs were turned. Maybe you should run, Max, I’d think as I dropped menus at his booth with a cheery smile. Max was as gallant as ever, but I never saw him smile at any of them—not his real smile—and I was secretly pleased.
He was always nice about introducing me to his girlfriends. The first one I met was Doris, the next Amelia, and after that they all ran together. For their part, they dismissed me quick in my pink waitress uniform. I got to calling them the Dorises whenever I thought of them, which was hardly ever.
One night, I met one of them in the little girls’ room. I was powdering my nose when she walked in and acted like she was surprised to see me.
“Isn’t Max just the cat’s pajamas?” She smoothed her varnished bob. “You’re a lucky duck to be his client.” Her tone was as fake as her eyelashes, but her meaning was plain. I was his client and she was his girl.
I was polite, really I was. “Where are you going tonight?”
“Probably to the Cocoanut,” she said with a shrug, “but you know Max: he needs to be home before midnight or Julia gets jealous.”
Julia? I almost dropped my powder puff. Who was Julia? But I wasn’t about to let on I didn’t know. I knew Max lived at theGarden of Allah, but he’d never taken me to his place. Was it because he lived with Julia? I snapped my compact shut and told what’s-her-name good night with a smile. I didn’t care who he spent his time with because I wasn’t stuck on Max. I just wasn’t keen on the thought of Max dancing with this sister or answering to a Julia-somebody.
One night in early December, Max took me to the latest Garbo release. I wore a dark-green linen suit tailored to an inch of my life and my best spectator pumps. I’d borrowed Lana’s fur collar and pinned up my hair in an elegant knot. I looked pretty good, I thought.
As the story began, Max leaned over and whispered into my ear, “The lighting, see how they fixed it? You can’t even tell that she has that square jaw. She owes the director big for making her beautiful.”
I ignored his whispered commentary and got caught up in the story. Garbo played a loose Parisian with a long string of lovers. Then she fell in love with Robert Montgomery, a handsome young student, but when he discovered her sordid past, he left her. A shiver washed over me. I knew about sordid pasts.
Max leaned close. “At that angle, her eyelashes look three inches long.”
