Page 10 of His Girl Hollywood

“Don, my boy.” Don cringed at the address. He didn’t want to be Frankie’s boy. Not now, not ever again. “How’s sunny Los Angeles? You pick up any starlets yet? Why you calling me collect? You should be rolling in dough out there.”

Never mind that Don didn’t ever have any dough because Frankie pocketed it. Don coughed. “No, no starlets, Frankie. Just finding my bearings. Getting ready to jump into the work tomorrow. The train only got in this morning.”

“Of course, of course. But the studio’s treating you right, yeah?”

“Yep, it’s great. Just, er, forgot my wallet when I went out to dinner and wanted to call you before it got too late on the East Coast.”

Frankie seemed to accept the excuse as he breezed right ahead. “Where are you at again? The Beverly Hills Hotel? The Roosevelt?”

Don and Eddie were holed up at a seedy little SRO on Hollywood and Vine. But Frankie thought Don had accepted the studio’s offer to put him up at a hotel while he was in Los Angeles. The hotel they were actually staying at had seen better days.

But whathadWalter Nebbs offered him when they’d made the deal for him to come to LA? Don racked his brain to try to remember if the talent scout had named anywhere specific. Don needed Frankie to think he was living it up out here. “The Chateau Marmont,” he replied. He had no idea where the studio was supposed to have put him. But the Chateau sounded good.

“Right, right. Well, don’t spend all your time at the bar.”

Don gritted his teeth. Frankie liked to pretend that Don was a smarmy gangster, wining and dining his way through life. But that was just the guy Frankie wanted to be seen as managing, his protégé. In reality, Don didn’t go anywhere or do anything he wasn’t told to do. A part of him wished he could savor his freedom while he was thousands of miles away from his manager. Instead, hespent every second looking over his shoulder, expecting something to go wrong.

“I won’t, Boss. They say the pictures are hard work. I’m sure I’ll be too tired.”

“Right, right,” Frankie muttered, clearly disinterested in the prospect of hard work. “That’s your specialty though.” In that respect, Frankie was right. Don had worked his tail off to get where he was.

“You know what they say about all work and no play though,” added Frankie, before pausing. Don swore he could hear him thinking through the phone. He could picture Frankie’s ugly mug, his brow furrowed, face scrunched up in the effort of having to use his words and not his fists. “Come to think of it, you do the work, I do the play.” He laughed.

“That’s the way you like it, Boss,” muttered Don.

Frankie’s voice turned to ice. “It is. And don’t you ever forget it. I built you. I can break you. So, twinkle your toes and smile for the cameras and bring home a generous Hollywood contract.”

“I will.” Don curled his fingers into a fist. It was a good thing Frankie couldn’t see him right now. He was practically snarling. He was itching for the day when he could present Frankie with a check, every cent stipulated in his original contract plus interest. He’d wipe that smug smile off his manager’s face and he’d be free at last. To dance for whomever he pleased. Hollywood. Broadway. Anyone. And there’d be nobody he had to prove anything to but himself.

“Good. And make sure you also remember our other rule—no dames.” Don’s stomach bottomed out. The memory of the one time he’d forgotten that rule, tried to transgress it, made bile rise in his throat. But Frankie kept right on talking. “If we get Eleanor out there, the two of you could make it as a real screen duo. But for that to work, the public needs to believe you’re madly in love.”

God, not this again. He was tired of pretending to be EleanorLester’s beau because it sold tickets. The two were dance partners, nothing else. With the success ofPal’ing Aroundand this upcoming picture, Don hoped they wouldn’t even be that for long. The day he never had to see Eleanor Lester again couldn’t come soon enough. Oh, her grating accent was tolerable. Even her misguided attempts to make their fake relationship real was something he could’ve stomached. But her blind devotion to Frankie, her role in Mabel’s accident,thathe could not abide. When their manager said jump, she asked, “How high?” Being in hock to Frankie Martino never seemed to faze her. Worse, she seemed to relish it.

“Right, Boss. I understand. The dames they got out here ain’t my type anyway.” It was meant as a joke. Because what man in his right mind would turn his nose up at being surrounded by starlets? But he wasn’t here for romance anyway.

Frankie laughed. “I’m sure there’s at least one girl in California that meets your exacting standards.”

Don had a sudden memory of Lena’s face—the soft lines of her mouth and stylish lilt of her auburn hair. He banished the thought as quickly as it came. She was like a sister to him. Even if she’d grown into something he scarcely recognized.

“I gotta go,” he told Frankie. “Early start tomorrow and all.”

“All right. Get your beauty rest. God knows you need it.” Frankie cackled into the phone, and the last thing Don heard as he returned the phone to the receiver was Frankie’s cruel laugh turning into a choking cough. Too bad the guy couldn’t kick the bucket and make it easy for Don.

He took his hat from the hook in the phone booth and squeaked out the door, letting a mousy brunette have his spot. He tipped his hat at her and returned to Eddie, his burger cold on his plate.

“How’s the old cheat?” asked Eddie.

“Same as ever,” muttered Don, picking at the lukewarm frenchfries he had left. He took a bite out of his hamburger, and it tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He chewed anyway, washing it down with the sickeningly sweet strawberry milkshake. “Smug, vain, and too full of himself to think beyond the amount of money I can bring him.”

Eddie shrugged, looking longingly at Don’s burger. “You gonna finish that?”

Don pushed the plate in Eddie’s direction and reached for his milkshake again. The syrupy sweetness was cloying. He shoved it in Eddie’s direction too. Great, now he’d wasted money on a meal he didn’t even want to eat. Don leaned his elbows on the soda counter and raked his fingers through his hair.

“Did Frankie buy it?” Eddie asked, his mouth full of a disgusting mash of french fries and strawberry milkshake.

Don shrugged without lifting his head. “I don’t know. I think so.” He couldn’t suppress a bubble of a hysterical laugh. “He thinks we’re staying at the Chateau Marmont.” He turned his head to look at Eddie, who had nearly started choking on his food. Don clapped him on the back, trying to help him swallow. “Easy, easy, pal.”

“Sorry. You mean we could’ve been staying at the Chateau Marmont instead of the fleabag hotel you got us in?”