Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Nothing! Nada! Not a fucking thing new in months. Okay, to be honest, in almost a year. Thirty years in the business, but that counted for shit. You’re only as good as your last deal, and that one was too long ago. Christ, he hated the Industry!

  At least he did at times like this, when he was scrambling like a wetback for every scrap of work he could get, just to keep his head above water. It hadn’t always been this way, of course. He used to be the best. He and Milton Glick, his ex-partner, were the casting house for quality television, movies, you name it. No bullshit commercials, no exploitation flicks then. Then there was a different babe every night. An office with a view. And the high-roller suite in the Sands, where he could really let himself go.

  Hey, he’d been a high roller. Paul Grasso. Rolling in it. Christ, he was good. Was? The word chilled him. Was he himself talking in the past tense already? Holy shit, he couldn’t let it get to him. Because, despite the split-up with Milton, despite his current lousy business, he wasn’t a has-been. He’d told Milton, the day he walked out the door, that Milton would run back to him. Milton cried, said he, Paul, was running him into the ground, but Paul was sure Milt would come back. He needed me to make it rain. To bring in the really big ones. “What are a few gambling debts?” he’d asked. “C’mon. Loosen up, Milt. Without me you’ll sink.”

  Except Glick didn’t sink. He kept on swimming, hooked up with that fat prick Weinstein, and now Weinstein and Glick Casting, Inc., were center stage. You needed to cast a quality movie, call Weinstein and Glick. That was the word on the boulevard. You need to cast a shit jeans commercial, call Grasso, then blow him off. It was Paul Grasso who had sunk.

  So here he was, back to nickel-and-diming. It wasn’t that he wasn’t making some money; that wasn’t it. But what he made just covered the vig. And he hadn’t made one of those big hits on a really big deal like he used to. But he’d close on one of them soon, he told himself, then pay off Benny Eggs and the other sharks and be back on the comp list. Christ, he had to close on something big soon. Because, if word got out that Paul Grasso had lost it, then it would be all over for him. The sharks would close in for a feeding frenzy. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not for himself, but also so that stiff Milton Glick would never be in the position of laughing at Paul Grasso. No one laughed at Paul Grasso.

  His secretary buzzed him to announce that Lila Kyle was here, his two o’clock. “Tell her to wait.” This is how it’s been going. People asking for favors, useless dreck kids of stars hoping for a bit part, or producers wanting freebees.

  Now he’d have to waste time and bullshit Theresa O’Donnells kid. Well, he couldn’t turn Robbie Lymon down. Theresa and he had a lot of history.

  He was also mildly curious to see what the child of beauty Theresa O’Donnell and swashbuckling grade-B movie hero Kerry Kyle—more handsome, some say, than Tyrone Power, and a hell of a bigger swish—looked like as an adult.

  He buzzed his secretary to show Lila in, reminding his girl to buzz him again in exactly fifteen minutes. She knew the drill. He had decided that fifteen minutes would be polite enough. Jesus, even if the kid was Julia Roberts, he had nothing for her. As the door opened and Lila walked in, it took Paul a moment to get to his feet. He shook her hand, then gestured to a chair in front of his desk. Jesus Christ! What a beauty. Tits out to here, legs down to there, and a cascade of red hair that ended at her perfect butt. And none of the sloppiness, the casualness of the kids of today. This girl was turned out. She was finished, with the high gloss of a pageant winner.

  “Lila. Lila Kyle. I didn’t know that was your name. I always thought your name was O’Donnell until Robbie finally told my secretary the other day. Lila Kyle. I’m speechless. You sure have grown up. How old are you now? Twenty-one, -two?” He laughed at how ridiculous that sounded. “Jeez, you’re beautiful, Lila.”

  “Thanks, Paul. You haven’t changed much. Still smoking smelly cigars, a little wider around the waist, but still a fine specimen of a man.” Lila smiled and crossed her sheer-stockinged legs.

  Yahta, yahta, yahta. Flash a little cooze. Not that it will help. Well, turn up the heat so she doesn’t get pissed or tell her mom I molested her. “Lila, I always knew that you would wind up more beautiful than your mother and father. And just call me ‘Uncle’ Paul!” Jeez, maybe he shouldn’t mention the fairy. Never know how much these Hollywood kids knew. He sat forward, elbows resting on his desk. “You were a gorgeous little kid, but, well, pudgy, not filled out, no height, you know? But, hey”—he opened his hands at the evidence sitting before him—“a raving beauty.”

  He thought of Kerry Kyle, a raver, and smiled again as he watched Lila’s expression at the compliments. Not a blink. Listening politely, but she already knows all this shit. Okay. Move on to the family yahta yahta.

  “How’s your mother, by the way?”

  “I’m not here to take a stroll down memory lane with you, Paul. Neither of us is the type, so I’ll get right to the point. I have a business proposition that will be good for me and for you.”

  He sat back and lit the cold stub of a cigar that had been resting on the edge of a chipped Steuben ashtray. Christmas gift from Milt. He needed the activity to give him a second to think. This was not coming off as your average Bel Air brat looking for a job. She’d read too many detective novels. Who’d she think she was, Mary Astor? He released a mouthful of smoke and said, “Okay, what can you do for my business?”

  “First get me in front of Marty DiGennaro.”

  Paul smiled broadly, and crossed his hands on his belly. Same old yahta yahta after all. He knew his ground again. Was she in love, or did she want DiGennaro to make her a star, or both? “And how’s that supposed to help me?”

  Lila sat forward in her chair. “Marty DiGennaro is going to be making a TV series, and he’s looking for new talent. Old-fashioned, virgin talent.”

  Paul laughed out loud. “My ass, you should excuse the expression. You got him confused with Barry Levinson. Marty DiGennaro does not do television series.” He said the last words as if they were street smut. The kid had shit for brains.

  As if she could read his mind, her face changed. “I haven’t tried for three weeks to get an appointment with you so Paul Grasso can treat me like I have shit for brains. If you listen to me, you might learn something—okay, Uncle Paul? Marty DiGennaro is going to do a TV series; he has the story, the concept, the Network, everything—except the leads. I saw the contract. You doubt me?”

  He nodded. You could keep a secret in this town, but not a big one. And this would be very big. The girl flushed, bent down, and rooted around in her big white leather bag.

  “Here,” she said, and dropped papers on his desk. She sat back and waited for Grasso to look it over.

  It was a contract. It looked in order. What a deal! Paul realized he was losing face, but she had him pinned. Christ, he’d played cards with Marty once a month for years, with Johnny the Jump and the other guys from back home. They used to let go in Vegas together regularly, though not for a while now. Was this legit? And how did she know, how did she have the motherfucking contract, while he was in the dark?

  “If Marty was going to do television, he’d have come to me, Lila. No way he’s having someone else do the casting. And no way I don’t know everything he does. Him and me, we go way back.”

  “Right, Paul, except Marty DiGennaro doesn’t look back, he looks forward. He needs three leads. New faces. All new.” She pointed to the wall of mostly black-and-white head shots of actors Grasso had gotten roles for. And not one of those pictures was less than three years old. “Why would Marty come to you for casting? What have you got that’s hot? Why should he?”

  Paul’s intercom buzzed, and he snapped into the speaker, “I don’t want to be disturbed.” He was about to go bananas. Either this broad knew what she was talking about, or she was nuts and making a fool outa him. She sat waiting for him to say something, not dropping her gaze. No, she’s not nuts, he decided.

>   “Okay, if this is true, and if I get you an intro to Marty, and if he likes you, and if you get cast, how’s that gonna help me?”

  “Right now,” Lila went on, “your old pal Milton Glick has got the exclusive for casting the series. Ortis gave them the shot. Anyhow, the word is Weinberg and Glick showed up at a meeting with Sy Ortis last week with nothing but their dicks in their hands, and Ortis goes apeshit. He threw every résumé and picture and video in the garbage. Things got tense.” She smiled, licked her lips, and recrossed her legs. Paul was beginning to see Lila in a new light. She was tougher than Mary Astor. And the mention of Milton’s name threw Paul into a real slow burn.

  “So now,” she continued, “they’re standing knee-deep in dog caa-caa, and unless they come up with some girls, they can kiss this deal goodbye. You know, it’s not a good idea to fail Sy Ortis.” Lila put an exaggerated frown on her face, taunting. “But you should already know all this, Paul, shouldn’t you? I mean, you are tight with Marty DiGennaro.” Lila waited.

  Grasso’s mind was working quickly now. She wanted tough? He’d play tough. “How am I supposed to get you to him? I mean, every cousin is trying to get Marty to meet some chick or other. And what if I do? You’re nice pussy, Lila, but Marty has it thrown at him from cars. What have you got?”

  “I’ve read every word ever written on Marty DiGennaro, genius director. He grew up living in the world of old movies and movie stars. You know what his personal collection of first-print classics is like? Probably the finest in the world. And guess which one is his favorite, Paul?”

  Paul shrugged his shoulders, pretending it wasn’t important, but knew it was. Why don’t I know what Marty’s favorite old movie is? he thought.

  “Does Birth of a Star ring a bell?”

  Right! She was right. Marty had talked about it. He loved Theresa O’Donnell’s first big hit. Yeah, Paul remembered now. Marty had once said he had seen Birth of a Star fifty-two times, or some crazy-ass number like that. Because of Theresa O’Donnell! Said she was one of the last natural beauties with talent in Hollywood. Yahta, yahta, yahta. Paul never listened to that movies-as-art bullshit. But it rang Marty’s chimes. And here was her kid—a natural beauty—sitting across from him.

  Now the kid stood up and leaned over Paul’s desk, looking down at him. “All I need is to see him over dinner. An hour with him. Make it happen, Paul. You’re not slipping, are you?”

  Paul was beginning to feel the old feeling again. This had dropped in his lap. But I could make this happen, he thought. “So I get you in front of Marty. Then what?”

  Lila’s tone turned patient. “Then leave the rest to me, Paul. I’m a big girl now. And, believe me, when we pull this off, Marty will be very grateful to you for doing what Milton couldn’t. Very grateful. The show will need lots of cast. A weekly series. An hour. Think of it.” Paul did, and licked his lips. “So call Marty DiGennaro, invite him out to dinner, with me as your date. Just one thing. Don’t tell him who my parents are. Not one word. That’s a must.”

  “You crazy? That’s your draw.”

  “Listen to me: don’t you dare mention my name. I’m a woman you’re dating. Tell him I hate to talk business, and that you just want to fuck me. I’m another Beverly Hills Industry brat who hates the business. No ambition, no talent, no illusions. Got it?”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “It’s important for Marty to discover me. He might not even look at me if he thought you were pushing me or I was hungry. I’m with you because you’re trying to get into my pants. And you can’t. Okay?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  She started to exit, then paused and returned to Paul, who was still sitting at his desk. She bent over and kissed him on the top of his head, then walked back to the door. As she opened it, she said, “Nobody keeps head shots on their walls anymore, Paul. They date you. Get rid of them. You’re getting yourself a second chance.”

  Paul stared at the closed door for moments, then looked at the phone. Make it happen, he said to himself. Shit, make it happen, he ordered, and picked up the receiver. He punched in Marty DiGennaro’s private number from memory.

  9

  Sharleen lay on the lumpy bed, listening to the sounds of Dean’s breathing beside her. It was usually comforting to hear him so close in the night when she couldn’t sleep, but tonight it was driving her crazy. She didn’t want to put on the light. When she did yesterday morning, she saw the cockroaches scampering for safety. She wished she could put off tomorrow forever. The red neon haze from the motel sign pushed in through the holes in the torn shade. Sharleen knew that soon it would be replaced by the red light of dawn, the dawn of another bleak day.

  She got out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, closed the door, and sat down on the covered toilet seat. The odor of mildew stung her nostrils, so she shook a cigarette loose from the pack on the vanity, lit it, and leaned back, releasing the smoke in one long, white trail. That skunk, she thought. Jake didn’t have to fire me. I wasn’t as good a waitress as Thelma, but he hardly gave me any time. It was only a month, for Lord’s sake.

  It was Thelma, she knew. Jake said as much. Sharleen sighed. Women seemed to hate her, no matter how nice she was to them. The same thing had gotten them fired from the rodeo. But she’d been nice to Thelma. It hadn’t worked. She was afraid I would take her fat husband from her, Sharleen thought with wonder. If only Thelma had known how repulsive Jake looked to her. But if she’d told Thelma that, Thelma would have been offended. Sharleen sighed, dragged again on the cigarette, and coughed. She didn’t really smoke. She’d only bought them because she was worried, and her momma always said that they soothed. Well, they were makin’ Sharleen sick as a cat.

  She and Dean had toured with the rodeo. Dean was great with the animals and the motors, but when guys came on to her—and they always did—Dean got into fights. So they’d had to leave. She’d worked in Burger Kings, and once, for over a month, they’d been so broke that they lived out of their car. They’d been tired and hungry and dirty when she got this job at Jake’s, and now she’d lost it. She took another drag on the cigarette and choked.

  Well, never mind; now what do I do? No job, Dean earning two-eighty-five an hour pumping gas. Lord, show me the way. Sharleen continued to smoke while looking up at the ceiling.

  It was disrespectful to the Lord to smoke and pray at the same time, she thought, so she stubbed the cigarette out carefully, threw it into the uncovered toilet tank, and then knelt on the dirty linoleum floor, her head bowed over the seat.

  Oh, Lord, I know we have sinned, and I know you have sent us into the desert, she began. But, please, dear Jesus, I am so very tired. Tired of the dirt, tired of runnin’, tired of these old clothes, tired of bein’ afraid, tired of the nasty motels, the torn towels, the greasy food.

  Tears began to form on the lower lids of her beautiful azure eyes, pearling up and rolling down her perfect cheek, beside her lovely nose, landing on her pink, plump upper lip. Like a child, she licked them away and continued.

  Oh, please, dear Jesus. Show me the way. She reached for her mother’s Bible, which she kept in the medicine chest, then sat back on the toilet with the book on her lap. I’ll open it and it will tell me what to do, she told herself. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, wiped her nose, too, then sniffed and took a deep breath.

  With a swift motion, she inserted a fingernail into the Good Book and opened the binding. It flipped open to the New Testament, first page of the book of Acts.

  She stared at the large-print heading on the page. Acts. Acting. She looked up to the flaking thin ceiling of the bathroom.

  What had that guy Milton said last week? I could get a job on TV and make a lot of money? But it couldn’t be for real. She stood up and quietly made her way out to the dresser in the bedroom, picked up her straw bag, and crept back into the john. Rummaging around, she found the little bit of paper she was looking for. “Milton Glick, Weinberg and Glick Casting, 25550 La Cienega Boulevard
, Hollywood, California.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she murmured.

  It wasn’t a comfortable drive from Bakersfield to L.A. for Sharleen. The Datsun’s air conditioning wasn’t working right, and she and Dean got lost twice. When she’d called, Mr. Glick had given her directions, but they didn’t make sense, and she’d never been a good map reader. Plus, Los Angeles was so much busier and bigger than Bakersfield.

  They got lost in a section of town that looked pretty rough. When they finally got on La Cienega, she sighed with relief. She had gotten all dressed up—a nice skirt from J C Penney, with a new blue blouse that had white lace with silver spangles on the cuffs and neckline. She had her old white pumps, but she’d covered the scuffs with the shoe polish she had used on her waitress shoes at Jake’s. She thought she looked nice, but when she got out of the car she nearly cried. The skirt was all rucked up, and the wrinkles wouldn’t smooth, while the blouse was wet up her back and under her arms. Her face was flushed with the heat, and her hair was lank from the humidity.

  “Dean, you wait here, now, okay?”

  “Sure, Sharleen. You gonna get another job?”

  What if this guy was a crook? What if he was lying, and he tried to rape her? What if they were Mafia or worse? Her hands shook as she closed the car door and looked in at Dean. “I hope so, honey.”

  She walked toward the office-building door. It looked big, and new, with marble floors and glittery metal edges on everything that wasn’t glass or mirror. The chilled air hit her with a blast as she moved through the revolving doors. She felt goose pimples raise on her flesh. Well, she was nervous. What would they do if she didn’t get this job? She clutched her patent-leather purse. She had only seventy-six dollars and some change from tips left.