Page 2 of His Girl Hollywood
She walked alongside it as it began its inexorable crawl out of the station. Should she tell him now? “Don, that penny wasn’t just for luck.”
He had his head out the window, and the sight of it made her laugh.
“What?” he asked.
“You look like Merlin.”
He gave her a look of mock horror. “You think I look like your family dog?”
She shrugged and smiled at him again. “You must admit there’s a strong resemblance.” She started to jog now to keep pace with the train.
“What else was the penny for then?”
She was almost at the end of the platform now; soon he’d be gone. “It was for—” She stumbled, her foot catching on the hem of her skirt. She looked up in horror as the train raced farther away from her.
He turned and whooped, raising his hat and waving it in the air as he looked back at her. “Next stop: 42nd Street!” he bellowed, blowing her a kiss and then pulling himself back inside and shutting the window as the train pulled farther away.
“For love,” she whispered, placing her hands back in her pockets and finding his handkerchief there. She pulled it from the pocket and waved it absentmindedly after the train. But she knew he wasn’t looking back. Not when all of his dreams lay ahead of him.
Chapter 1
Don placed his hands on his knees and struggled to catch his breath. The sound of the applause from the audience in the Ethel Barrymore Theatre was deafening. He mopped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and ran back out onto the stage, giving a little bow and waving. Three standing ovations. It was a new personal record.
Ten years, and he’d finally done it. His name above the marquee in a Broadway show that was earning him rave reviews. Ten years of hustling, eight of those hoofing it for Frankie Martino, and he was making good at last. Without Eleanor Lester. If his father could see him now…the old man would spit in his eye.
Finally, the din of the crowd softened, and he practically skipped off the stage. His pal and choreographer, Eddie Rosso, was waiting in the wings. He clapped Don on the back. “Congrats, Don! I think this might have been your best night yet.”
Don couldn’t suppress a grin. “The audience certainly seemed to think so.” He reached for a small towel Eddie was holding out to him and mopped the sweat from his face. Don’s stomach growled, and he realized he was famished. “What do you say we go get a bite to celebrate?” Eddie made a face. “What?”
“You’ve got a visitor.” Eddie grimaced and jerked his thumb in the direction of Don’s dressing room.Damn it.He’d hoped to slipout before Frankie or one of his goons dropped in.
“I’ll get rid of them,” Don growled. The high he’d experienced onstage quickly fizzled at the prospect of dealing with his two-bit manager or one of his thugs.
Eddie gave him a sad little smile as if to say,Sureeee, right.But instead, he said, “Okay, I’ll wait for you at Hamilton’s Diner on Fifty-Ninth.”
“Be there in thirty minutes, tops.” Don didn’t miss Eddie’s slight eye roll, but he was determined not to spend more than fifteen minutes with whatever problem was waiting for him. Being represented—no, imprisoned—by Frankie Martino had never been a walk in the park. But in the last few years, Don had strained at his extremely short leash more and more. Hell, he couldn’t even decompress and eat a burger with his pal after a two-show day without Frankie holding him up, demanding something.
He sighed and navigated the collection of ropes, pulleys, and flats that populated the backstage area, making his way toward his dressing room. But when he opened the door, he was startled to find a man he didn’t recognize, his head haloed by the bulbs lining the dressing-room mirror.
The man wore a three-piece suit and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Don could tell the fella had money but didn’t like to waste it. Everything about him screamed tastefully expensive. He didn’t look anything like the wannabe gangsters Frankie usually sent to check in on him.
“Uh, can I help you?”
“Don Lamont, you’re just the man I’m looking for.”
Don pulled at the tie around his neck and loosened it, crossing to the clothes rack that held his various costumes forPal’ing Around. “Happy to be of service,” he mumbled, unbuttoning his sweaty shirt with no regard for the man in his dressing room. Hewas invadinghispersonal space after all. “And who exactly are you?”
“Walter Nebbs. I work for Evets Studios.” Don’s hands stilled on his middle button and his spine straightened. Evets Studios. It was a movie studio, he knew that. But it sounded awfully familiar. “Harry Evets is my boss, and he asked me to come take a look at you and your little musical. Apparently his fiancée saw you in previews and can’t stop talking about you.”
Harry Evets. It hit him then. He knew the name because that was the studio where Arlene worked, where she’d made her screenwriting debut with a picture that had won her an Oscar last month.Reno Rendezvous.He’d gone to see it three times. He hadn’t talked to Lena since that day he’d said goodbye to her on the platform a decade ago. When he got to New York, he had been flat broke.
If he was going to spend a nickel on a phone call, he wanted to wait until he had something good to report. News that would make Lena proud. But then, he’d got mixed up with Frankie. Done some things he wasn’t proud of. Been paired off with Eleanor Lester. Then there had been Mabel. After Mabel, well, he didn’t want Frankie or Eleanor to know that Lena and her family existed. It was safer that way. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still proud of Lena for achieving her dreams. She’d made good. And he hoped that her success hadn’t cost her what his had cost him.
He rubbed absentmindedly at a spot on his ribs where one of Frankie’s thugs had slugged him the other day. It was after another performance. Don had come into his dressing room, only to be immediately sucker punched by one of Frankie’s guys. All because Don had taken a meeting with a Broadway producer and forgotten to mention to Frankie that it was happening. The bruise hurt like hell, and he’d had to work not to wince through his performances that week. But that was Frankie’s MO. Hurt Don just enough to keep him in line, but never enough to actually affectthe merchandise.
“You all right?” the man from the studio asked.
“What?” Don had practically forgotten the guy was standing there. “Oh, my ribs. Yeah, sure, fine. Just took a spill in the subway the other day, little tender.”