“They’re just poor,” Lulu said hotly. “That doesn’t make them bad.”
“It does, some of them,” the driver countered. “It drives them to do things a comfortable person might shrink from.”
Lulu hesitated, then stepped out of the car with conviction.
She was immediately greeted by an onslaught of wolf whistles. Too late, she realized that she was still wearing her costume from the set, and the slinky silver lamé clung provocatively to her curves, completely inappropriate for daylight. Coupled with her coiffed hair and her too-heavy stage makeup, it made her look like a street walker, or at best, a lost and sauced party girl.
The little dog yipped and gazed up at her questioningly as she hesitated by the car. “You’re right,” she told the little dog, “I should have put on a coat. I always have the best ideas too late.”
The soup kitchen was well off the main strip, in a dim corner where glittering stars and tourists with money to spend didn’t have to be offended. The poor make the rich uncomfortable, she thought. She could feel her own guilt welling as she slowly walked past the congregation of down-and-outs on the breadline. They were mostly men, but there were families, too, and old women, and ragged children. For a heartbeat Lulu thought what her income could do for them. How many could she help, if she made a few sacrifices? She could still send enough home to her folks, have a decent place to live. She’d just have to give up her maid, her rented Spanish-Revival-style house with its lovely courtyard and colorful tile work. . . .
No. I earned it, fair and square. Well, maybe not on the square, but I did something unpleasant, and here I am, successful. It was work—grueling work.
She looked them over with a critical eye, not letting herself think about how hard they might have struggled, what they might have suffered. There were plenty of young men on the breadline. They’d probably come to California full of dreams just like people had eighty years before, during the California gold rush, lured by the promise of dazzling success. Maybe a few had found it, but most had unearthed only poverty and failure, like the rest of America. There simply weren’t enough jobs, no matter how hard a person was willing to work.
They were a rough lot, dirty and foul smelling. Lulu tried to see beyond the grime and despair to their faces, but it was difficult. None of them looked remotely promising on first glance. It wasn’t that he had to be particularly handsome. She thought of Wallace Beery or Edward G. Robinson. No, a man didn’t have to be a knockout, but he did have to have something else in his face—a spark, a vitality, and preferably a little bit of mystery. Something that made people look at him, and look again, and not want to stop.
None of these men had it. They only made Lulu want to look away. Their faces were gray, forgettable, all similar in their creased and grimy despondency. They were the faces of men without fight left in them.
No, wait—there was one young man who caught her eye. Near twenty, with a shock of untrimmed black hair, the prominent brow ridges of a dashing Neanderthal, and a chiseled chin made to take a punch, he positively seethed. One of the other shabby men jostled him from behind, and the fellow turned on him with a cold, fierce look, a dangerous half smile, making the man back off with a stuttered apology. Oh yes, there was fight left in this one.
Lulu considered the character Sassoon had decided on to replace the dog. He had to be young, good-looking enough to attract a society belle, with a touch of sympathy and a hefty portion of menace. This one had the looks, like Valentino with a hangover, and menace by the bucketload. If he had half an ounce of smarts, Sassoon could train him up to his part and Girl About Town could resume filming that afternoon. She walked up to him.
“Hey, mister,” she said, gently tugging on his ragged jacket sleeve.
He shook her off roughly without looking at her. “Back of the line, muffin.”
“Excuse me?” Lulu asked indignantly.
The man turned, and the way he looked her up and down made her really wish she’d remembered to grab a coat. “A hot buttered muffin, at that. But you still can’t cut in the line. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Stick around, baby doll, and I might have something for you after chow.” He winked at her, and though it made her feel profoundly uncomfortable, she also decided he had enough charisma to fill a seventy-foot screen with ease.
“You don’t understand,” Lulu began, speaking quickly and forcing herself to keep calm. “I might have a job for you. An opportunity for a . . . a man such as yourself. You’ll be fed and paid, all for a little bit of work that I promise you won’t find too onerous.”
He took in the spangles at her wrist and throat, the clinging silver gown that flowed over her form like water. “What kind of work?” he asked in a gravelly rumble.
Her patience fled, and she felt the slum girl in her emerge. “What do you care?” she snapped at him as she would have to a fresh newsboy. “You’re a bum without visible means of support!” For a second she felt horribly guilty . . . but he put a quick end to that.
He leered at her and stepped closer. “Looks to me you’ve got no visible means of support under that dress.”
She gasped and stepped back a pace. She wanted to slap him; she wanted to run away. But she needed to get Girl About Town wrapped. Her whole career depended on it. Swallowing her nerves, her anger, she said, “Do you want the job or not? If you do, follow me.” She stalked off with a false air of confidence, looking for her driver, and was relieved to hear not only the dog’s tip-tapping claws, but the slap of the man’s broken-soled shoes following. If she could just get him to the studio!
Before she got very far, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She whirled, but it wasn’t the man she’d hired. It was another man, no more than her own age, seventeen. He’d broken out of the queue, losing his place to trot after her. She’d considered him briefly in the lineup but had rejected him immediately. Under his filth was a handsome face, certainly, but it was soft, innocent, kind. Not at all what she was looking for.
“I wouldn’t go with him if I were you,” the boy said.
“Sorry,” she said shortly. “I’m only hiring one, and you’re not my type.”
“He’s not what you need,” the young man said.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but please mind your own beeswax. I’m a big girl, and I know what I need.” The lead in The House of Mirth. Lulu took her new costar’s arm and began to walk away again. She looked over her shoulder. The young man was still watching her, making indecisive movements, as if he meant to follow. He really was extraordinarily good-looking under his dirt. But there was no way he could ever attack someone, and that’s what this new character had to do. Still, with that mug . . . “Stop by Central Casting and tell them I sent you,” she called. Maybe he could get a part as an extra.
They strode away, leaving the young man behind. Where was that darned car?
Lulu dropped his arm as soon as they were alone. “Now, mister,” she began.
“Rocco.”
“It would be. Now, then, Mr. Rocco, when we get where we’re going, will you please just do exactly as you’re told?” She turned up the charm as Mrs. Wilberforce had taught her and looked up at him hopefully.
He smiled at her, which she took as a good sign until she realized he was looking down her dress. She gulped and put a little more distance between them, but Rocco took her elbow and pulled her tightly against his side.
“Relax, baby. I’m a pro. I’m gonna take you somewhere you’ve never been before.”
“What? Who’s writing your dialogue?” She tried to pull away, but he turned the corner sharply, jerking her with him. “Hold it right there. You’ve got the wrong idea.”
“I know you can’t wait to get me to your place, but let me give you a little taste of what’s in store for you, on the house.” He pushed her against the wall of the shadowed alleyway and kissed her.
For just a second, before she realized what was happening, her body responded, filling with a thrilling warmth. She’d ha
d film kisses galore, but she’d never been taken passionately in someone’s arms for real. The length of his body pressed against hers, and his lips were fiercely sweet, demanding.
Then her brain caught up with her body, and she shoved him away and slapped him as hard as she could.
Rocco rubbed his cheek, looking more amused than angry. “I can play that game, sister,” he said. “But for that I charge extra. And now that we’ve brought up the subject of money . . .”
Her chest rising and falling fast under the shimmering material of her gown, she could only stare at him, uncomprehending. Beside her, the little dog growled low in his throat.
“He’s a gigolo,” said a soft voice from the sunny entrance of the alleyway. It was the young man from the breadline. “I tried to warn you, but apparently you’re a big girl and know what you want.” Slapping Rocco had felt so good, Lulu wanted to do it to this fellow too. Imagine, throwing her words back at her like that, just because she made one teeny little misjudgment!
Rocco clenched his fists and said, “Why you little . . .”
But the young man seemed completely unperturbed. “You know, a man who sells his favors for money.” He looked at Lulu with an infuriating grin.
“I know what a gigolo is,” she said furiously. “I don’t care if he is one. I need him—not for that, but I still need him. Rocco, come with me. And if you try to kiss me again, I’ll break your beak.”
“Wait a minute,” Rocco said. “Is this some kind of joke? You better not be pulling a fast one on me. Pay up now, or there’s trouble.” He held out his beefy hand.
“Pay up for what?” Lulu asked indignantly. “You haven’t done anything yet, except commit an act of public indecency. I ought to have you arrested.” She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, forgetting all about her perfectly applied lipstick.
“You’ve already bought my time. You pulled me out of the breadline. You owe me.” He advanced on her menacingly. The little dog got between them, growling louder.
“Stay away from her.” The young man’s voice was as soft and gentle as ever, but he stepped forward with his fists clenched. Lulu gave a hysterical little hiccup of a laugh. What on earth did he think he could do against huge, enraged Rocco?
Rocco looked amused. He swung a lazy punch that would have broken the young man’s jaw . . . had it connected. But the young man pivoted out of reach and said, “I don’t want to hurt you. Just leave the lady alone and we won’t have to notify the police. I seem to have heard about an old woman whose cash and new boyfriend vanished around the same time. They were telling the story on the breadline yesterday, and apparently the boyfriend looks exactly like you. Strange, huh?”
“Shut your mouth!” Rocco gave a roar and charged at him. The young man sidestepped and landed a punch to Rocco’s temple that laid him out flat.
Lulu thought the young man looked a little sad about it.
The dog gave the prostrate form a sniff, then lifted his leg over Rocco’s shoe.
The young man gingerly scooped the terrier up mid-whiz and dropped him beside a trash bin to finish his business. “No point adding insult to injury,” he told the dog. “That’s just rude.”
Lulu stood with her hands on her hips. “He doesn’t understand you,” she said, then added a little sheepishly, “He just looks like he does.”
“What’s his name?”
“He doesn’t have one.” Why were they talking casually about a dog when there was an unconscious, violent gigolo lying at their feet?
“Of course he does. Don’t you, boy?” He crouched down, and the dog marched up to him, his tongue lolling, his tail wagging like mad. “We just have to figure out what it is.” The dog gave a sharp bark. “Yip? Is that it?” The dog sneezed. “No, not that.” He scratched the dog under the chin, then stood.
“How did you do that?” Lulu asked, pointing at Rocco.
The young man shrugged. “My friend Mugsy taught me,” he said, as if that explained everything. He seemed more interested in the dog than in his recent victory. Or in her, which piqued. “He’s a loyal little pooch. How about Fido? That’s Latin for faithful.”
“You speak Latin?”
“No.”
Well, that was okay then. Her world might be a little rocked by a starving bum who spoke Latin.
“I only read it. Anyway,” he went on, ignoring her startled look, “he doesn’t seem like a Fido.”
“Why did you follow me?” Lulu asked, stamping her foot.
“For your name. You said to stop by Central Casting and tell them you sent me. Only you never told me who you are.”
“Don’t you watch movies?”
“Used to. Not so much anymore.”
“Well, I’m a star,” she said, annoyance making her arrogant.
“Let’s see . . . You must be Barbara Stanwyck?”
“I wish.”
“Carole Lombard? No, no scar.” Carole had a scar on her cheek from a car accident, but managed to cover it up with makeup and collusion with the cameramen. How did he know about her scar? “Mae West? No, too young. Shirley Temple? No, too old. I give up. Which star are you?”
“I’m Lulu Kelly.”
“Of the Lower East Side Kellys, right?”
Lulu flushed bright crimson.
“Your accent shows when you get angry. No, don’t get more angry! Deep breaths. There you go. Now, shall I escort you to your mansion, Miss Kelly? Or is it Mrs.?”
“It’s nothing to you,” she huffed.
“Sorry about your gigolo. Are you sore at me? I can revive him, and you two can carry on as you were before my rude interruption.”
“Don’t smile at me like that,” she said.
“I don’t know any other way to smile.”
“I needed someone for a small movie role, and I needed him fast. A poor, handsome guy with a mean streak. I figured I’d find the genuine article so we wouldn’t have to waste time training him up. Now I can kiss my dream role good-bye. Unless . . .” She narrowed her eyes. This young man was an impressive boxer, but he hadn’t ever looked mean or mad during the whole uneven fight. “Do you want to make some money?”
“You need a replacement gigolo?”
She tried to slap him, but he evaded her just as easily as he had Rocco. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve forgotten some of my manners on the road. Forgive me?”
“Maybe,” she said, “if you can act. Can you act?”
He gave a wry smile. “I’m acting now.”
“Ha. Well, I suppose you’ll have to do. Come with me.”
But before she had gone three steps, she turned around. Rocco was slowly groaning back to consciousness. Good. At least he wasn’t dead, though Veronica would no doubt be pleased with the headlines it would generate. “Femme Fatale at Fault in Fatal Fight.” In Hollywood, there was no such thing as bad publicity.
Lulu crouched down beside him and slipped off her other bracelet, a twin of the one she’d given to the dog owner, except with small emeralds set in the platinum instead of rubies. She put it in Rocco’s jacket pocket, stood, and walked briskly away.
“Why did you do that?” the young man asked.
“Because no one should have to sell himself,” she said.
The young man stopped smiling. She looked at him as he strode beside her. His eyes, bright hazel, regarded her with something that made her feel uncomfortable in a vastly different way than Rocco’s gaze had. She felt he was judging her, like maybe she’d passed one test but might not pass any of the others. He reminded her of that damned dog. The nerve of him, a boy from the gutter without a penny to his name, making her feel like that! She had half a mind to leave him here. But no, she needed someone. He wasn’t much, but he’d do.
“Is this wag part of the deal?” the boy asked, looking down at the dog, who regarded them attentively. “Look, doesn’t his face remind you of Charlie Chaplin?”
“Charlie,” Lulu said. “Now, that’s a good name for him.”
�
��You know, I think you’re right.”
“What about you?” she asked. “What’s a good name for you?”
The young man seemed to think about it for a while. “Freddie,” he said at last. “Yes, I think that’s the perfect name for me. Freddie Van.”
SIXTEEN
Do us both a favor and listen carefully. All you have to do is learn your lines and follow directions, and this will be the bee’s knees,” Lulu told Freddie as they cruised down Burbank Avenue in the backseat of the studio car. Freddie had the window rolled down, and he and Charlie were enjoying the warm California air.
“Who says I want the job?” Freddie asked.
“Of course you want the job. You’re broke, right? Didn’t you come to Hollywood to be a star? Everyone would give their left leg to get a speaking role.”
“Yet I don’t often see one-legged men in the movies,” he said, managing to keep a straight face when she shot him a look.
“Are you trying to get my goat?”
“Maybe,” he answered.
“Well, consider my goat got. Ugh, these shoes are even more annoying than you. I’ll ruin my stockings, but I can’t take it anymore. Here, hold them for me.” She stooped to pull off her heels.
“Am I playing the part of a manservant? Your hands are free. You can carry them yourself, can’t you?”
“Men have fought for the right to drink champagne from my slippers, you know,” she informed him.
Freddie took the shoes and sniffed. “Men with no sense of smell, apparently. No, don’t take offense. Feet are feet, as the philosopher once said. Rich feet smell no better than poor feet after walking all day in the California sun. Feet make us all equal. What do you think, Charlie?” He held the dainty shoes down for Charlie to smell. The dog gave a delighted whine and tried to start a game of tug-of-war.
“Well, mine are happy feet now,” Lulu said, leaning against the car’s warm leather interior and stretching her toes.
“Is it worth it?” he asked. “All that trouble and pain to look beautiful?”
She looked at him archly. “You tell me.”
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