86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,32

Ronny and his secretary Kimberly around L.A. all that day running errands and then to the location during the setup at sundown. Ronny was edgy—barking orders—and constantly on his cell phone. We’d been fighting the home-ward-bound rush-hour traffic that feeds north on the Pacific Coast Highway from the 10 freeway.

As we pulled into the parking lot young Ronny became unglued. Some unsuspecting human shitball that was working on the film had been in a hurry and parked his Toyota sedan in the spot marked “X-Producer.”

Stedman threw his cell phone across the car, smashing it against the wooden console. Then he got out and slammed his two-thousand-dollar briefcase on the roof of the limo. Then he stomped over to where the director and the cast were running lines in preparation for the scene.

Kimberly had been putting up with his crap all day. She sighed deeply then jumped out too, hustling after him carrying the briefcase.

Standing there by Pearl, waiting for the shit to fly, was one of the grips, who came over to check out the stretch. He said his name was Chico but he wasn’t Mexican. Chico asked to look inside the limo and ogled the red leather and the woodwork and the TV and stocked bar. “Nice ride, my brother.”

“Thanks,” I said back. “Holllleeeewood. You know.”

“So how long have you been driving Mr. Big?” he asked.

“Not that long, but he’s become a damn good customer.”

“This is my third film with him. Ever been to his office at 9200 Sunset?”

“No,” I said.

“So you’ve never seen The Orchid?”

“The Orchid?”

“Yeah, he has an orchid in a big pot behind his desk on the cabinet. Ronny’s famous for that orchid.”

“Okay,” I said. “How come?”

“Well, you know that Mr. Big almost never leaves his office during the day. He never goes out. During business hours when he gets busy on the phone and that stuff, when Mr. Big has to take a squirt, what do you think he does?”

“He pisses in The Orchid?”

“Yup.”

“Isn’t it dead by now?”

“It’s a fake orchid. The thing’s plastic. He sprays air stuff around the office but it doesn’t matter. You can always smell the stink. The Orchid and the piss smell are Ronny’s claim to fame in this town. His trademarks.”

I nodded. “He’s a pretty intense guy,” I said.

“His receptionists get the pleasure of emptying the planter every couple of days. That’s why he never keeps one for very long.”

“C’mon. Straight dope?”

Chico was grinning. “Straight dope, my man. Hey, anyway, gotta go. Nice ride.”

“Okay, see you.”

I looked over at the group standing by the director’s chairs. There was young Ronny. He’d found the culprit, an assistant director kid named Matt. Thirty feet away from my limo with two dozen crew members watching, Stedman was yelling and lambasting the guy for his stupidity and unprofessional conduct.

Matt was sorry, he’d been in a hurry delivering extra copies of the last-minute scene notes for the actors. But sorry ain’t shit. Sorry just didn’t cut it. Ronny Stedman was boss and he took this five-minute opportunity to make sure everyone present could completely comprehended how a true Hollywood jerkoff actually conducts himself.

fourteen

That night I got back to Dav-Ko after one a.m., exhausted and a little buzzed, and as I was rolling over the drive and pulling into the raised carport, I misjudged the distance and bumped the rear of our brown stretch with the tip of Pearl’s right fender.

Hearing the thud I got out to take a look. I’d dislodged a piece of front chrome molding. Surely a five-hundred-dollar repair at the Lincoln dealer’s body shop and the loss of a day’s rental for the car, another twelve hundred bucks.

I was pissed. When I got inside Joshua was just leaving for the night, shutting the office down and forwarding our phones to the answering service.

After he’d gone I remembered what Jackie, our New York mechanic, used to do when a chrome strip or a piece of molding came loose on one of the older Caddys. I located a tube of Krazy Glue in our tool cabinet and went back outside to see if I could reattach the molding.

The glue worked. Five minutes later Pearl’s fender strip was in place and as good as new except for a tiny, almost unnoticeable ding.

Back in the office I entered my “Time-In” in the computer after tossing the glue on the desk. I could hear an Etta James CD playing in Portia’s chauffeur’s room/bedroom. I knew that I’d better go in and say hello.

“Bruno!” she called from