She smiled at Toby and said, “Can I help you?”
Toby could not resist it. He reached out with his two hands and grabbed her ripe melon breasts. A look of shock came over her face. As she opened her mouth to cry out, Toby fixed his eyes in a glazed stare and said apologetically, “Excuse me, miss—I’m not a sighted person.”
“Oh! I’m sorry!” She was contrite for what she had been thinking, and sympathetic. She conducted Toby to a table, holding his arm and helping him sit down, and arranged for his order. When she came back to his table a few minutes later and caught him studying the pictures on the wall, Toby beamed up at her and said, “It’s a miracle! I can see again!”
He was so innocent and so funny that she could not help laughing. She laughed all through dinner with Toby, and at his jokes in bed that night.
Toby took odd jobs around Hollywood because they brought him to the fringes of show business. He parked cars at Ciro’s, and as the celebrities drove up, Toby would open the car door with a bright smile and an apt quip. They paid no attention. He was just a parking boy, and they did not even know he was alive. Toby watched the beautiful girls as they got out of the cars in their expensive, tight-fitting dresses, and he thought to himself, If you only knew what a big star I’m going to be, you’d drop all those creeps.
Toby made the rounds of agents, but he quickly learned that he was wasting his time. The agents were all star-fuckers. You could not look for them. They had to be looking for you. The name that Toby heard most often was Clifton Lawrence. He handled only the biggest talent and he made the most incredible deals. One day, Toby thought, Clifton Lawrence is going to be my agent.
Toby subscribed to the two bibles of show business: Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter. It made him feel like an insider. Forever Amber had been bought by Twentieth Century-Fox, and Otto Preminger was going to direct. Ava Gardner had been signed to star in Whistle Stop with George Raft and Jorja Curtright, and Life with Father had been bought by Warner Brothers. Then Toby saw an item that made his pulse start pounding. “Producer Sam Winters has been named Vice-President in Charge of Production at Pan-Pacific Studios.”
7
When Sam Winters returned from the war his job at Pan-Pacific Studios was waiting for him. Six months later, there was a shakeup. The head of the studio was fired, and Sam was asked to take over until a new production head could be found. Sam did such a good job that the search was abandoned, and he was officially made Vice-President in Charge of Production. It was a nerve-racking, ulcer-making job, but Sam loved it more than he loved anything in the world.
Hollywood was a three-ring circus filled with wild, insane characters, a minefield with a parade of idiots dancing across it. Most actors, directors and producers were self-centered megalomaniacs, ungrateful, vicious and destructive. But as far as Sam was concerned, if they had talent, nothing else mattered. Talent was the magic key.
Sam’s office door opened and Lucille Elkins, his secretary, came in with the freshly opened mail. Lucille was a permanent fixture, one of the competent professionals who stayed on forever and watched her bosses come and go.
“Clifton Lawrence is here to see you,” Lucille said.
“Tell him to come in.”
Sam liked Lawrence. He had style. Fred Allen had said, “All the sincerity in Hollywood could be hidden in a gnat’s navel and there’d still be room for four caraway seeds and an agent’s heart.”
Cliff Lawrence was more sincere than most agents. He was a Hollywood legend, and his client list ran the gamut of who’s who in the entertainment field. He had a one-man office and was constantly on the move, servicing clients in London, Switzerland, Rome and New York. He was on intimate terms with all the important Hollywood executives and played in a weekly gin game that included the production heads of three studios. Twice a year, Lawrence chartered a yacht, gathered half a dozen beautiful “models” and invited top studio executives for a week’s “fishing trip.” Clifton Lawrence kept a fully stocked beachhouse at Malibu that was available to his friends anytime they wanted to use it. It was a symbiotic relationship that Clifton had with Hollywood, and it was profitable for everyone.
Sam watched as the door opened and Lawrence bounced in, elegant in a beautifully tailored suit. He walked up to Sam, extended a perfectly manicured hand and said, “Just wanted to say a quick hello. How’s everything, dear boy?”
“Let me put it this way,” Sam said. “If days were ships, today would be the Titanic.”
Clifton Lawrence made a commiserating noise.
“What did you think of the preview last night?” Sam asked.
“Trim the first twenty minutes and shoot a new ending, and you’ve got yourself a big hit.”
“Bull’s-eye.” Sam smiled. “That’s exactly what we’re doing. Any clients to sell me today?”
Lawrence grinned. “Sorry. They’re all working.”
And it was true. Clifton Lawrence’s select stable of top stars, with a sprinkling of directors and producers, were always in demand.
“See you for dinner Friday, Sam,” Clifton said. “Ciao.” He turned and walked out the door.
Lucille’s voice came over the intercom. “Dallas Burke is here.”
“Send him in.”
“And Mel Foss would like to see you. He said it’s urgent.”
Mel Foss was head of the television division of Pan-Pacific Studios.
Sam glanced at his desk calendar. “Tell him to make it breakfast tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. The Polo Lounge.”